


Not an Island

by fourleggedfish



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Coping, Friendship/Love, M/M, Non-Consensual, PTSD/aftermath, Pon Farr, Sexual Coercion, Spock is uptight and repressed, Telepathy, courtship/bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 107,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourleggedfish/pseuds/fourleggedfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Classic episode "Immunity Syndrome," Spock felt the death of 400 Vulcans on a nearby ship so strongly that McCoy had to escort him off of the bridge. When the Narada destroyed Vulcan, billions died. There have to be long-term, serious consequences to that for the surviving Vulcans, and especially for Spock, who shipped off with the Enterprise almost right away. It just might take a while to show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I previously posted some stand-alone portions of this under a pseudonym on LJ. Not sure if anyone read them there, but just in case, I'm not stealing anyone's work. Cheers!

Prologue: Approximately 6 months into the first 5 year mission, post-Narada

The ship trembled all around them, and Spock watched chess pieces rattle and vibrate off of their assigned squares. He was aware of the grip that he had on the edge of the table, but not the force of that grip. The chess pieces tipped off the edges of the playing field and ricocheted off the table like pebbles shaken loose from the ceiling and falling to the floor. Spock found himself thinking, with no degree of rationality, that it was raining pawns.  
   
Barring emergency situations or other duty-related circumstances, Spock engaged in chess matches with the captain every day after the conclusion of both of their shifts. Typically, this meant that they did not find joint time until after 2300 hours, since Kirk took command of alpha shift and Spock took beta, their logged time overlapping for an average of one point nine hours. Red Alert of course brought them both to the bridge no matter the hour, but for the most part, they spent the majority of their days working apart.  
   
It was therefore puzzling to Spock, upon their post-Narada launch as officially commissioned officers of the Enterprise, that Kirk sought him out so often for off-duty socialization as well as for discussions relating to ship operations. They both had very little free time once they discharged their command duties, and yet Kirk chose to spend it with him rather than with his many other, more boisterous friends. Surely, Kirk found their company more engaging than that of a taciturn, withdrawn and socially inept (by human standards) Vulcan.  
   
Spock himself did not feel that his own time was being taken from more worthy pursuits. He and Nyota did not see each other except in public areas of the ship, so he was not neglecting his friendship with her. Contrary to ship’s rumor, he and Nyota did not have either an official or a long-standing romantic association. She had expressed her affection for him in the human fashion, and had later offered him what comfort she could, in a purely human fashion. Spock had accepted that offer, to a point. He was aware (after researching the library computer, admittedly), that his acceptance of her comfort had created an implication of romanticism and perhaps of intent to engage in a formal courtship. It was regrettable that he had not been aware of that at the time, but Nyota did not grudge him either his ignorance or his need. She was a remarkable woman, and Spock was glad to count her a friend. If he had felt any mental affinity for her, then perhaps he could have responded to her advances with more long-term intent. _Kaiidth_. Such was not for them to share.  
   
In any case, Spock’s time outside of duties, scientific pursuits and meditation was largely open, and Kirk took it upon himself for unknown reasons to occupy it. Spock had not been given firsthand knowledge of the phenomenon of ‘friendship’ before travelling to Earth. Even then, Nyota had been the first person to truly attempt it with him. Spock had thought this to be due to an oddity in Nyota’s social construction, that she would choose to affiliate with such as him and somehow enjoy it. If she were not naturally kind, he would have assumed that she was using him either for his knowledge or for the influence granted by his status at the academy. In Spock’s experience, his company was not pleasant or even desirable outside of necessity. Vulcans had merely tolerated him at best because he was too human in their eyes, and most other species avoided him because he was too Vulcan. Until Nyota.  
   
James Kirk was nothing like Nyota. He was loud, obnoxious, manipulative, frighteningly brilliant in the same manner that Spock himself was but with no true checks on his energy or intents such as that afforded to Spock by his Vulcan upbringing. Above all else, however, Kirk was far too insistently outgoing to truly be an extroverted personality type. He was infuriating. Spock admitted that, Vulcan or no; James Kirk infuriated him with his illogic, and his breaches of Spock’s personal boundaries, and his insufferable (affected and carefully calculated, he suspected) charm. It was incomprehensible to Spock how the man continued to function effectively. He suspected that a small degree of sociopathy would account for it, except that Kirk was definitely not a sociopath; Spock had been touched by him often enough to know. All humans were illogical, but Kirk was in a category all his own. Spock did not like it.  
   
And yet, Spock accepted every single one of the chess invitations. And the meal invitations, the invitations to stroll about ‘inspecting’ the ship, that one invitation to ‘camp out’ in the aft observation deck, the invitations to have ‘paperwork parties’ in Kirk’s quarters… Once, Spock had even agreed – and he would never know why – to accompany Jim to the arboretum at 0300 ship time just so that Kirk could walk about the greenery in his bare feet. Spock’s continued casual association with him defied rational explanation. It was so prevalent that McCoy referred to Spock as Kirk’s Vulcan shadow, and Nyota had actually asked at one point if they were courting. The very notion was ridiculous; Nyota had simply looked at him and then changed the subject when Spock informed her of this.  
    
“Dammit,” Kirk muttered. He flicked the sole remaining pawn from the desktop and Spock kept his eyes pointedly fixed on the now empty queen’s level of the board. His ears continued to catch the clatter of the piece skittering away across the floor, a constant rattle of small, lightweight objects displaced by turbulence. With a sigh, Kirk suggested, “We could go use the magnetic set in Rec Room Three. I’m pretty sure we can both remember where all the pieces were.”  
   
Spock had already forgotten where all the pieces were. He hadn’t even been paying attention to the game for the past ten point two minutes. The strategy he had initiated at opening moves required very little conscious input once set in motion. That was why he had chosen it. The deck continued to rumble for several more seconds before it subsided, leaving behind a startling hush. His breathing was not overloud in the stillness, but it was obviously faster and harsher than normal. In fact, it was the only thing that Spock could hear with any degree of clarity.  
   
“Spock?”  
   
Turbulence in a vacuum was not like turbulence in atmospheric flights, or earthquakes at ground level. Spatial turbulence was a thing unto itself. In an earthquake, one could throw oneself to the ground and know that even though it was shaking, it was still a solid foundation. Even in an aerial vehicle, one had the surety of decking, and the instability felt more like being shaken about the inside of a tin can than anything else. Turbulence from the inside of a starship felt as if the very fabric of space, in all dimensions, were shuddering apart along subatomic fault lines. An overly effusive description, but accurate nonetheless. Everything moved and vibrated and shook – even the air. It felt as if the spaces between the atoms in the marrow of his bones were vibrating and splintering at the strain. As if there were no stable place left. No steady core. No solid rock to use as an anchor that would not split apart in just another moment. It felt like the dying heave of a planet. No solid ground left to stand on, just a great crushing nothingness to grasp after in the dark.  
   
“Spock.”  
   
Spock started and looked up. Jim’s hand was on his arm, squeezing to gain his attention. When had he moved to Spock’s side of the table?  
   
Jim quirked an odd smile, but only on one side of his face. “I didn’t think Vulcans got motion sick.” He removed his hand with an apologetic gesture, palm directed toward Spock, and backed off a step.  
   
Spock tilted his head back as Jim straightened, to maintain eye contact. _That_ was an anchor of sorts. It had been two point two hours since they had encountered the ion storm which had just put a precipitous end to their nightly chess game. Inertial dampeners were not sufficient for quelling every roll of turbulence, which had been growing steadily worse since the middle of beta shift. They could not sustain a warp bubble amidst this degree of electromagnetic interference, and the storm was moving fast enough that the sublight drive would not be able to propel them past the boundary of the storm front without causing considerable damage to the propulsion system and the hull integrity of the ship. Once caught in the edge of it, they had no choice but to ride it out like a sailing ship at anchor. Spock had still not determined the reason for their failure to detect its formation or approach in the first place. Instrument error, perhaps. He would perform the necessary diagnostics after the ion storm passed so that this would not happen again.  
  
“You need a hypo or something? Bones has been giving them out like candy since we hit the storm front.”  
   
Without even thinking about the words or what they entailed, Spock blurted out, “It feels like Vulcan.”  
   
What had made him do it would probably forever remain a mystery to Spock. Vulcans did not admit to emotion, not out loud. They did not seek reassurance. They did not leave themselves vulnerable on account of emotions. The only permissible sharing was between bondmates, and even then, the admission was for the bond alone, never for actual speech.  
   
Kirk’s initial reaction was to go still, standing over Spock’s chair with his hands on his hips in the middle of a polite retreat from his invasion of Spock’s personal space. Then his face changed in minute shifts that Spock could not interpret, and he sank down to balance on the balls of his feet, slightly lower than eye level with Spock. “Like…the last time you were there, you mean?”  
   
To which other time would Spock be referring? He did not bother to reply, but focused his restless gaze on the table top and tried to recall the last configuration of chess pieces. He could not concentrate. This lapse was disgraceful; he was a Vulcan. He should not be affected like this; he should be able to control.  
   
In his periphery, he could perceive snatches of movement as Kirk returned to his own side of the table. A moment later, he appeared again at Spock’s side, this time with his chair in hand, which he had apparently dragged over without Spock noticing. Kirk set his chair next to Spock’s, close enough that Spock would be able to feel his body heat once he sat. Kirk did not sit, however – not right away. He busied himself collecting chess pieces from the floor, deconstructing the chess board and removing it level by level from Spock’s unseeing field of vision, and then he disappeared behind the room divider for several long minutes.  
   
When Kirk returned, it was with a blanket draped over one arm and a steaming mug in each hand. He peeled Spock’s fingers from the edge of the table and wrapped them around the mug of tea instead, then prodded him backwards until he ended up slumped in the chair rather than hunched over the tabletop, his shoulders curled inward, the mug of tea clutched to his chest. Steam rose in languid curls to bathe Spock’s face, and he inhaled the warmth. He was always so cold since leaving Vulcan.  
   
Kirk draped the quilt over Spock’s lap and around his shoulders, then sat down next to him, gripping his own mug with a nonchalance that even Spock could identify as forced. They were both tense, uneasy with Spock’s revelation. Had they been in any other situation, Spock would have retreated to his own quarters to meditate on this unexpected emotional outburst, but he did not wish to be alone. Spock was not accustomed to requiring another’s company. It made him feel unbalanced to _need_ in that fashion. An adult Vulcan should be self reliant; they underwent certain tests, rights of passage, to guarantee their ability to be so.  
   
“You know,” Kirk murmured, breaking into Spock’s reverie with the force of a hammer shattering crystal in spite of the softness of his tone. “I still get twitchy when people use the word ‘famine’ around me.”  
   
Spock’s lids lowered slowly, until he could no longer tell if he were caught in an aborted blink or were manifesting drowsiness. A sluggish sort of awareness stole over him as he processed Kirk’s declaration and parsed it for relevance to the situation at hand. He could find none, so he dragged his eyes from the nothing he had been staring into and fixed them with a wavering focus on Kirk’s form beside him.  
   
“Sometimes, I even panic if somebody tells me I’m not allowed to eat when I’m hungry. Or that there’s no more food, even if they just mean that there’s no more _right there_ , not that it’s _all_ gone.” He shrugged, a gesture consisting of the lifting of one shoulder and the twitch of his opposite hand. “They don’t mean it to sound malicious, but it does. There was this one time at the academy when I had a flu virus, and even though I was puking my guts out, I was hungry, you know? My stomach was empty and I could feel it, and I needed that feeling to go away. I was pretty much delirious with the fever, which didn’t help. Bones caught me ordering something from the replicator – I don’t even remember what it was – but he flipped out. You know how he is. Went off about how I’m an idiot, and I shouldn’t be out of bed, and under no circumstances was I to eat anything without his medical say-so.” Jim bobbed his head from side to side, a gesture which Spock understood to mean that he was mocking McCoy’s attitude, though Spock wasn’t sure in what manner. “Then he locked the replicator so I couldn’t use it.”  
   
Spock blinked at the profile of the man beside him – his friend, who had not looked at him since taking his seat – and then allowed his head to dip down and around until he was staring into his tea mug again.  
   
Jim nodded absently to himself, perhaps in affirmation or perhaps for no reason other than to bleed off nervous energy. “I could have hacked it, but it was like…in that moment, there was just him, and he was telling me that there was food, but I wasn’t allowed to have it. I broke his nose and knocked out his left canine when I punched him. It was just…I needed to _not_ be back there, not even mentally, and the only way I know how to do that is to make the hollow feeling in my stomach go away. It’s not even about being hungry, it’s just…the association, I suppose. Having an empty stomach just reminds me of all of the rest of it, and it’s…it’s a bad place to be.”  
   
Spock studied his tea with a gravity it did not deserve, his mind wandering in jagged fits over his perfect recall of Jim Kirk’s Starfleet record. There was a classified portion dating from 2245 to 2247. Only certain admirals possessed the security clearance to access that portion of his record, but given the dates and Jim’s confession, the content of that part was now obvious. He tilted his head and gazed at Kirk sideways. “You were on Tarsus IV.”  
   
Kirk’s only response was a nod that appeared more like a bow of his head. He remained in that pose with his hands twisted about his un-sipped mug of coffee. “All I’m saying is that we all have something that just won’t leave us. I take some kind of food with me wherever I go, and you don’t like it when the deck shakes. We’re none of us perfect, Spock. It’s just part of who we are.”  
   
Spock continued to watch Kirk in the hope that he would meet his gaze, but Kirk refused to look away from his hands. Spock eventually gave up and settled in to watch his now tepid tea grow colder while intermittent tremors wracked the ship around them. When the trailing end of the storm finally passed them by five point six eight hours later, and the bridge announced the all clear, Kirk’s only concession to their shared vigil was to accept the blanket that Spock handed back to him and smile. Spock offered no verbal thanks, but Jim did not seem to require such. They parted ways without further mention of the incident. The connection, however, remained.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1: approximately one year into the first 5-year mission

 

“Doctor McCoy.”

 

McCoy looked up from the PADDs spread across his desk, then rolled his eyes and groaned, “What’s he done this time?”

 

Spock blinked once, surmised that McCoy assumed the Captain to be responsible for this visit, and straightened with his hands clasped behind his back. “You are in error. I am not here to discuss the Captain’s behavior.” Though it was a logical conclusion on McCoy’s part since to Spock’s recollection, he had only ever come here independent of medical orders due to one of the Captain’s…peculiarities. “I am experiencing a medical problem.”

 

“Oh! Well, then have yourself a seat, Commander.”

 

There was no reason for the doctor to appear so thrilled, though perhaps relief would account for it. Spock had noticed that approximately 23% of the doctor’s ongoing, chronic stress was either directly or indirectly caused by the captain. Spock took the seat at which McCoy had gestured, and folded his hands, waiting.

 

McCoy merely stared at him for thirty seven seconds, and then said, “Are you going to tell me what sort of medical problem you have, or am I supposed to guess?”

 

Spock opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. He needed the doctor’s assistance, which would be less effective if Spock promoted the natural animosity with which McCoy regarded him. Plus, it was Spock’s fault that McCoy was irritated this time; he was not overly familiar with the habits and behavioral protocols common in interactions with human doctors. The medics Spock had seen prior to this had either tended obvious physical injuries, or conducted routine physicals for inclusion in his Starfleet records, neither of which provided clues to the sort of non-formulaic interaction that Spock had initiated by coming here today. Had McCoy been a Vulcan healer, it would have been rude of Spock to begin the conversation himself. Then again, if he were to visit a healer, he would have been offered the ritualistic glass of water, a practice to which Humans did not adhere. Their cultures were very dissimilar. Even being raised by a human parent had not imparted the necessary knowledge of instinctive human interactions. Spock was, by choice and upbringing if not fully by biology, a Vulcan.

 

And now he was stalling, so he cleared his throat and told himself that he only did so because the act conveyed non-verbal contextual meaning to humans. “I have been…that is, I have noticed…” Why was this so difficult? If McCoy had been a Vulcan Healer…but he was not, so any further conjecture on that would serve no constructive purpose.

 

It was fascinating to watch McCoy’s expression soften in response to his awkwardness. “Spock, I’m a doctor. I promise you, I’ve heard it all already.”

 

Spock furrowed his brows. “You have?” He glanced aside and tried to determine if his symptoms would have been obvious enough to others to warrant their reporting them to the CMO. This was…unanticipated and disturbing, to think that he had been so affected that others had noticed. He looked back to McCoy, still perturbed, and inquired, “In that case, what treatment do you recommend?”

 

McCoy’s reaction made no sense; he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand gestured between them in curt, emphatic movements that Spock had observed previously when the doctor’s patience had been tried. “No. Spock, I mean I’ve heard all kinds of embarrassing things before, and I’ve treated all kinds of embarrassing conditions, so there’s nothing you could say to shock me, and you don’t need to be hesitant. I’m not here to judge you.” He appeared to consider this, and then reluctantly qualified, “Well…not much, anyway. I reserve the right to call you an idiot if you deserve it.”

 

Spock merely stared at him. “Vulcans do not experience embarrassment.”

 

“Oh, for – fine, Spock. _Fine_. You’re not embarrassed. Just – ” Here, he flung both hands in Spock’s direction as if throwing water or confetti at him. Spock suppressed the urge to draw back. “Just spit it out, already!”

 

Spock regarded McCoy warily. “Perhaps this is not a good time.” He made to rise. “I will return when you are less pressed – ”

 

“Spock, sit your ornery ass back down, and that’s an order.”

 

Spock sat back down, folded his hands, and waited.

 

After shaking his head in exasperation, mumbling unintelligibly, and heaving a frankly melodramatic sigh, McCoy adopted a frighteningly professional smile and said, “Now. Why don’t you start by telling me your symptoms?”

 

Spock decided that it had been a mistake to come here, but it was too late to undo the action. “The symptoms are not that serious.”

 

“And yet, here you are,” McCoy pointed out.

 

Indeed. Spock took a deep breath. “I have been experiencing intermittent increases in my core body temperature which last for less than a minute but result in mild muscle weakness, perspiration, increased heart rate, shortness of breath, and dilation of the capillaries of the dermal layers of my face and chest. Occasionally, the sensations are accompanied by dizziness and a tingling sensation in the extremities. The episodes are not incapacitating, merely distracting. Afterwards, I feel disoriented and tired, and on nine of those occasions, I developed a headache which could not be resolved through meditation.”

 

McCoy frowned, and Spock was relieved to note that he was taking the situation seriously and professionally. “How long has this been going on?”

 

“The first episode occurred sixteen days ago.”

 

McCoy grunted and fished a PADD out from under a pile of patient records. He tapped a few notes onto the screen and then asked, “Frequency?”

 

“Three days lapsed between the first and second episodes. However, I have experienced the sensations twelve times in the past forty eight hour period, and I suspect that I have experienced episodes prior to this without having identified them as such.”

 

McCoy looked up and pierced him with a scrutiny that would have made a non-Vulcan squirm. “Are you having an episode right now?”

 

Spock started to shake his head, then amended his response to a verbal one. Vulcans did not indulge in overt displays of non-verbal communication; body language left too many ambiguities that could be interpreted incorrectly on an erroneous inference. “Negative. The last one began on the bridge during my shift, lasted for approximately two minutes, and concluded when I entered the turbolift after shift change. I came directly here at that time.”

 

“Approximately? You don’t have an exact duration on that?”

 

Obviously, if he had been in possession of a more accurate figure, he would have imparted it at the proper time. He did wonder, however, whether McCoy asked out of spite or because Spock’s failure to note the duration via his innate time sense should be considered another symptom. Spock merely blinked back and remained silent.

 

“Hm.” McCoy looked down again with a frown and tapped out a few more notes. Then he scrolled through what Spock assumed was his official medical record, displayed several unidentifiable facial expressions, and then made another nonspecific sound. Humans were very noisy creatures. “Well, it could be a heart problem – an intermittent arrhythmia, most likely. I think we should start with that.” He stood up and tucked the PADD under his arm, motioning for Spock to rise as well. “I’ll run a blood panel too, see if maybe your electrolytes or hormones or something are off. It’ll also rule out bacterial and viral infections. If that doesn’t show us what’s wrong, we’ll move on to allergens, and if that still hasn’t solved it, we’ll check out the more obscure possibilities. Come on.”

 

Spock followed him to an exam room and told himself that he was not concerned because he had no data as yet with which to form an opinion on the gravity of the situation. “I believe it would also be prudent to run a genome analysis, and to scan my genetic structure for mutation or degradation.”

 

McCoy stopped what he was doing – setting instruments and sample kits out on trays – and gradually craned his neck to look over his shoulder. He gave Spock a strange look, his posture melting into something languid and altogether disturbing for the inconsistent sharpness in his eyes. “Now, I know you didn’t just pull that suggestion outa your tight little green ass.”

 

Spock allowed a single eyebrow to curve into an imperious arch.

 

“Right.” McCoy turned to fully face him and crossed his arms over his chest. Even Spock, with his rather stunted comprehension of unspoken social cues, could identify that as a tacit refusal to continue with the examination until Spock explained himself. “Out with it. It’s not like Vulcans tend toward hypochondria, so come on and tell me why you want me to sequence your DNA, of all things.”

 

“I wish a comparison of my current code against that which was entered into Starfleet records upon my commission,” Spock clarified, since McCoy’s response did not seem to indicate comprehension of his original request. He attributed this to McCoy’s more colloquial version of the Standard language. Spock had never been good at understanding non-literal phrases.

 

McCoy may have rolled his eyes in exasperation, but they fluttered shut first, so Spock could not tell for certain. He made an admirable show of not glaring at Spock with any overt display of emotion. “I’m not askin’ you to reword your request, Spock; I got that part. What I want to know is _why_ you want me to go through the hassle of doing such a thing.” He was gesturing by this point, but only with one hand, palm raised and fingers furled into a shallow cup as if he were waiting for someone to place the correct response into his hand. His other arm remained curled over his chest, his hand grasping the opposite elbow.

 

“I have been warned of the instability of my genetic code,” Spock replied, and though his tone was measured as per usual, he could tell that it held a note of challenge, as if he were daring McCoy to prove that it was _not_ unstable. As if he _needed_ McCoy to rise to that challenge. He would have to examine this behavioral aberration during his evening meditation.

 

From the blank expression on McCoy’s face – an obvious affectation – he had caught on to the oddities of Spock’s speech patterns as well. He understood perhaps more about that single sentence than did Spock himself. “By the doctors who engineered you?”

 

Spock dipped his head once. “Affirmative.”

 

McCoy shifted on his feet and glanced away briefly before locking gazes with Spock again. Spock could not discern a purpose for his having looked aside. “What exactly did they tell you?”

 

“To be precise, they provided the warnings to my parents, not to myself directly.” Spock quelled an annoying impulse to fidget, and then had to spend a moment suppressing the annoyance as well. “I was simply in the room on those occasions.”

 

“Fine, okay.” McCoy made a production of rolling his eyes. “What, pray tell, did you hear while they were talkin’ over your head?” It was fascinating how McCoy could convey three different unspoken sentiments with a single facial expression – exasperation at Spock’s speech patterns and pedantry, professionalism with its attendant care and patience, and poorly reserved judgment against the doctors of Spock’s youth. And those three were in fact only the main emotional responses; there were hints of at least two others, but Spock was not skilled enough to identify them. Humans were so adept at blending, displaying, faking and obscuring their emotions, often all at the same time. It was no wonder Vulcans often found them so intriguing. And irritating.

 

Spock recognized that he was stalling again and disguising it as interest in McCoy’s range of emotional expression. “It was impressed upon me at an early age that the process by which I was created was, and still is, experimental. There can be no guarantees about my health, longevity or development.”

 

“Is that so.”

 

Spock paused, startled at the note of…meanness?...in McCoy’s statement. Those three words in that combination were normally used as a form of sarcasm in the inquisitive sense. And yet to the best of Spock’s knowledge, the Doctor did not appear to be employing sarcasm at this time. “Yes,” he replied even though he suspected that McCoy’s remark had been rhetorical. “Four attempts were made to splice and sequence a viable hybrid genetic code before mine was formulated. I am the nineteenth iteration of that configuration. The previous eighteen were identical to mine, genetically, but cellular mitosis ceased for unknown reasons within several hours of conception.”

 

Spock paused, weighed the merits of finishing that thought aloud due to possible emotional connotations, and then elected to disclose the rest of it in spite of that. McCoy was his Doctor. A Healer, even if not of the Vulcan healing arts. It was logical to disclose all relevant information to one’s Healer, no matter the emotionality of those disclosures.

 

For a reason which lurked at the edges of Spock’s conscious notice, unacknowledged and poorly formed, he drew himself up and squared his posture. It was a defiant pose. He let it remain as such. “It was always made clear to me that I am an experiment in genetic engineering. The experiment has not yet concluded as I am still alive, but in point of fact, my continued existence constitutes an outlier among the rest of the compiled data points. I am an anomalous result which has yet to be successfully duplicated.”

 

McCoy just stared at him for a length of time which did not seem to correspond to the linear passage of a mere fourteen seconds. Then McCoy drew in a slow breath, measured to match the gradual bowing of his head, which carried his gaze down as well. It seemed to be an effort at control, much like the deep breathing exercises that Spock had integrated into his unconscious behaviors as a child. “A data point,” he breathed softly, to himself. Abruptly, he shook himself from his fugue and turned back to the instrument tray. His movements remained efficient, but they carried an edge that had previously been absent. “Spock, do me a favor.”

 

“What favor would you ask of me?”

 

Several hyposprays clattered to the surface of the tray with an unnecessary amount of force. “Don’t ever tell me that story again.”

 

Spock opened his mouth, found that he had no words with which to form a cogent response, and so pressed his lips back together. McCoy had not yet turned back to face him, but his shoulders betrayed far more in the way of emotions than Spock would have thought possible. The emotions themselves were indecipherable to him, but he recognized that they existed nonetheless. “I do not understand. You requested an explanation and I provided one.”

 

“ _You –_ ” McCoy stopped himself with a visible effort, his knuckles paling where he had shifted to grip either side of his tray. When he next spoke, there was venom in his voice that Spock could find no cause for, and he sounded on the brink of a tirade. It was more puzzling to Spock that McCoy restrained himself than that his volatile emotions had threatened eruption in the first place. “You are a living being. You are _not_ an experiment, or a data point, or – or a god damn _outlier_!” He imbued the last word with such vitriol as to make it sound like a profanity.

 

Spock cocked his head and drew back a fraction. “But I _am_ an outlier. And the method of my conception _was_ experimental.”

 

“No, the _data_ is an outlier – not you! _You_ are a sentient, infuriating son of a bitch!”

 

Spock flinched before he could stop himself, then forced himself back to calm, contemplative stillness.

 

“Never mind!” McCoy spat. He followed it up with a half-coherent litany of grumbled aspersions cast on Vulcans, their scientific methods, their physical appearance, and their general fitness to be called civilized beings.

 

Spock reacted to none of it, as he was well used to this borderline specist behavior from McCoy. In point of fact, he knew that McCoy was _not_ actually specist or xenophobic, as many mistakenly thought him to be. He simply became frustrated with what he considered to be illogical behavior in other species. The irony of this knowledge was not lost on Spock. Actually, he found that it endeared McCoy to him somehow, even as Spock recognized that his most common response to McCoy was annoyance.

 

McCoy snatched up the tray and stalked over to the biobed. “Well, don’t just stand there. Lay the hell down, you stupid bastard.”

 

Normally, Spock would rebut that since his parents were properly bonded and wed at the time of his conception, he was not technically a bastard. However, it seemed unwise to test McCoy’s patience at the moment, so he merely tucked this odd tirade away to be focused upon and dissected during his nightly meditation, and obeyed the order.

 

* * * * *

 

McCoy’s initial tests proved inconclusive. Spock was instructed to maintain a log of the episodes and the symptoms experienced, as well as a record of all food and drink ingested to see if the culprit was a previously undiagnosed or adult-onset allergy. McCoy also fitted him with a biomonitor bracelet in the hopes of recording evidence of the reported symptoms. Since the episodes were so short in duration, it would be difficult for Spock to make it to sickbay in time for a scan before the symptoms abated.

 

McCoy also gave him a supply of copper supplements because even though it couldn’t entirely account for his symptoms, Spock was slightly anemic due to his diet, which consisted mostly of replicated Terran flora and foodstuffs, none of which were high in copper content. It was logical to correct the deficiency so that any effects caused by that condition could be ruled out, thereby giving a clearer picture of what was truly wrong with him. He had to explain this to the captain over breakfast, since Kirk noticed him taking the pill after he consumed his fruit and oatmeal. The thought of Jim’s obvious concern for his health left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth. He did not wish the captain to worry about him; it would distract him from his proper duties. Spock resolved to minimize his discussions with Kirk regarding the state of his health so that this issue would not consume too much of the captain’s valuable attention.

 

For the most part, the episodes of weakness and pseudo-fever came infrequently over the next several weeks. McCoy continued to monitor him, but the biosensors in the bracelet he wore under his uniform sleeve failed to pick up anything more alarming than occasional blips in his heart rate or minor irregularities in his breathing. Any of these could be easily attributed to his activities during the performance of his duties, and so Spock paid them little heed. After the passage of a full month without an episode, McCoy concluded that anemia had in fact been to blame, and that the severity of Spock’s physical reactions to it had grown from some as yet unremarked quirk in his hybrid physiology. This explanation seemed too simplistic, but Spock had no alternative theory, and was therefore logically forced to accept it, at least for the time being.

 

* * * * *

 

“Spock?”

 

A slight jostling disrupted Spock’s sleep and he grabbed the offending hand in a vice grip before his mind fully woke.

 

“Ow! Ow, Spock, seriously, you’re gonna break my wrist.”

 

Spock blinked at Jim’s pinched features and tried to determine the reason for his having disturbed Spock’s rest.

 

“I mean it…Spock,” Kirk gasped. “You really need to let me go now. I swear, I’ll never touch you again, just – ”

 

“Piecrust promise.” He loosened his fingers.

 

Kirk ceased struggling and gaped at him, then wrenched himself free and scooted out of arm’s reach. He examined his wrist, poking at reddened patches that would no doubt bruise shortly, and then squinted at Spock. “Did you seriously just quote Mary Poppins?”

 

Spock pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall of the cave they had taken refuge in. “My mother was fond of Earth culture. She shared it with me.” He studied their surroundings for evidence of a change in their situation, but everything appeared as it had when he had laid down to rest. “Why did you wake me?”

 

Kirk looked down at his hand and devoted far more focus to its range of movement than seemed warranted. “Sulu and Cupcake are due back any minute, and you were, um…not sleeping peacefully. I just thought, you didn’t need them hearing…”

 

Several seconds passed and the sentence remained unfinished, so Spock raised his brows and prompted, “Yes?”

 

“I just know how those end, okay?” Kirk snapped, scrubbing his sleeve across his face in a vain attempt to remove some of the grime that had accumulated there when the flash flood had swept the away team into the bog at the bottom of the hill that led up to their cave. “I didn’t think you’d want them around if it got any worse. That’s…it’s private, Spock. They don’t have any right to hear.”

 

Spock examined Kirk’s statements and tried to correlate them with his knowledge of Kirk’s thinking processes. Hesitantly, he clarified, “I was vocalizing in my sleep?”

 

Kirk fiddled at the air in Spock’s direction and grumbled, “No big deal. Been there. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”

 

“Vulcans are not subject to nocturnal – ”

 

“If you need to believe that, then fine, Spock. Let’s just not talk about it anymore, okay?”

 

Spock had no recollection of the dream himself. “I apologize for having disturbed your own rest.” Curious now to know what had so discomfited his captain, he inquired, “What was I saying?”

 

This seemed to upset Kirk even more and he cast a worried glance into the darkness to his left, where the cave opened into a large cathedral-like space and the ground dropped sheer away into the void. His voice a naked whisper in the musty dark, he replied, “You were talking to your mom.”

 

Spock didn’t react at first, and then he drew back sharply, straightening his posture in an almost violent manner. He knew that his voice would not be controlled if he spoke now, and yet he did so anyway. “Vulcans are not subject to nocturnal vocalizations.” He plucked at the strap of his tricorder and snapped it open, his fingernails gouged into the casing as he stabbed the readout with his thumbs to bring up a scan of the chamber in which they sat. “There is a high concentration of lucite in these rocks. Furthermore, a subterranean river system appears to originate approximately three hundred meters below our current position.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry – ”

 

“The storm front has passed this ridge and is now travelling east over the mountain range. However, the planet’s ionosphere is still negatively charged. We will not be able to contact the ship for another twenty two minutes, at least.” He looked up to fix Kirk with a non-expression. “Lieutenants Sulu and Galloway are overdue; we should investigate their whereabouts in accordance with standard landing party procedure.”

 

Kirk swallowed, his expression far too open for Spock to fathom. “Okay. I get it.” His eyes fell and he made a point of clearing his throat; he seemed to gather his persona together in much the same way as Spock pulled his Vulcan training about him to allow his mind to think without emotional impediment. “Let’s go find out what’s keeping them, shall we?”

 

“Indeed.” Spock rolled to his knees and then his feet, brushing dust from his uniform pants as he did so.

 

It was only later, after they found their missing crewmen laying about drunk off of the fumes given off by a decaying species of native flowering shrub, regained contact with the Enterprise and beamed back, that Spock felt able to rationally consider his apparent vocal indiscretions. He and Kirk were playing chess in Kirk’s quarters. It had become a regular occurrence and Spock recognized that he enjoyed the pastime. It also fostered an easier rapport between them, an important quality in a command team. Also, an important element of friendship in the human custom. Spock knew that Kirk held the sort of regard for him that humans defined as friendship. What was not clear was whether or not Spock held Kirk in the kind of regard that defined friendship by the Vulcan term.

 

“Jim?”

 

Kirk blinked and gave Spock a distracted look before returning his attention to the board. “Hm?”

 

Spock hesitated because the question was not logical – the answer could serve no practical purpose. He wanted to know anyway. “Jim, what was I saying?” The air felt different after his voice faded out on the last syllable, but he could not identify the cause or the quality of the difference; he only knew that some undefined quality of the atmosphere had changed.

 

Kirk appeared not to have heard, but he betrayed the farce in the way he moved to shift his queen; his shoulders twisted, one forward with his arm as he reached, and the other back. It was a defensive posture meant to angle his soft underbelly away from an oncoming attack.

 

The mannerism was fascinating to watch. Did he know that he was doing it? Was it on purpose, or was the behavior so ingrained that his body did it without thought? Spock’s attention flickered back to the board long enough to counter Kirk’s move, and then he returned to his scrutiny of the man on the other side of the table.

 

Kirk had been watching him, but as soon as Spock made eye contact, Kirk broke it. He held a glass of liquor in his lap, clasped between both hands. Spock was not certain as to which variety it was, only that it smelled unpleasantly of ethanol and that Kirk suppressed a wince every time he sipped at it. After much contemplation, Kirk finally replied, “It wasn’t anything bad. You were showing her something – _valit-lar_? You said it was for her, and I guess she wouldn’t take it because you kept saying that she needed to keep it so she wouldn’t be alone when she died. Then you said…” Kirk seemed to sink deeper into his chair, folding in at the shoulders as if taking shelter. “You told her not to cry for you anymore because it doesn’t hurt when your age-mates call you a halfbreed; it’s just the truth, and there’s no logic to being hurt by an accurate appellation.”

 

Though Spock had not thought that he had any expectations as to what he might have been dreaming about, he could not have predicted that. He contemplated the still chess board for a moment and then offered, “I have no recollection of the dream.” Odd; his tone seemed one of disappointment.

 

“I remember reading somewhere that Vulcans don’t dream like most other species do.”

 

“That is true,” Spock replied, but he offered no comment on the fact of his own dreaming. “We do not require REM sleep to maintain optimum neurological health. This is thought to be an evolutionary trait as falling too deeply asleep in the desert would have proven fatal.” He shifted in his seat and then quelled the nervous fidget; he suspected that he had picked up such mannerisms from the humans around him, as he could not recall displaying such ticks until he had signed onto the Enterprise. “We do dream, however. On rare occasions, or when ill.”

 

“You’re not ill,” Kirk pointed out.

 

Spock bit his lip; a mannerism that he had been hard-pressed to overcome as a child. He made no real effort to suppress it now. If Jim was indeed a friend, then it was appropriate to show some loosening of his controls when in private, but he was not certain as to the degree that would be considered appropriate by the standards of either of their species.

 

 

The silence only became apparent as stretched when Kirk broke it to ask, “What’s a _valit-lar_?”

 

“It is a small rodent, native to Vulcan. They are – They _were_ sometimes tamed as pets. I believe they would be analogous to a Terran chinchilla or rabbit, though the _valit-lar_ has a scaled hide rather than a furred pelt.” Spock paused, thought better of voicing anything else, and then allowed himself to admit softly, “I believe I miss her. Her absence is…tangible at times.” He looked up, searching Jim’s expression for something he could not put a name to. “Do you ever miss your father?”

 

Kirk pressed his lips into a reluctant expression, and reached out to nudge a bishop across the second level. “It’s not the same, Spock. I never knew him, not like you knew your mother.” He frowned into the middle distance, his eyes trained on some invisible point between them. “I can’t say that I did or didn’t love him; he was just a bedtime story to me. But I was mad at him a lot. For not being there, for dying. My grandparents told me once that he’d wanted to be in Starfleet since he was five years old. And when he had a choice – die for Starfleet, or live for me and my mom and Sam – he chose to die. It was like we weren’t important enough to live for.”

 

Spock caught himself shaking his head and stilled the movement. “That is not logical. Your father died in part to save your life. You and your mother _were_ more important than Starfleet. He did not die for the sake of an organization – for an abstraction. He died so that his wife and son would not.”

 

“I know,” Kirk replied, his tone subdued. “I know that in my mind, Spock. Hell, I even know it here.” He tapped his chest. “But that doesn’t erase the fact that he wasn’t there for me, and there were some times when I really needed him.” His eyes flickered over the chess board, no doubt planning tactics even as he conducted an emotional conversation. “I don’t miss him. You can’t miss what you never had.”

 

Silence closed in around them and Spock found himself frowning at the chess board, disturbed by Jim’s assertions. Eventually, he had to ask, “How can you live like that?”

 

Evidently, Kirk had become lost in thought; he startled and looked up. “Like what?”

 

“You are connected to no one. You have no bonds to your living family, no consistent intimate partner, no bonded brothers or intimate friends. I do not understand how you can exist in such a void.”

 

Kirk smiled at that, an easy and knowing upturn of his lips broken by a flash of teeth. “I’m not in a void, Spock. I have McCoy, for one.” He hesitated, his eyes skimming Spock’s face, then said, “You aren’t in a void either, you know.”

 

The implication took a moment, and then Spock’s gaze dropped like a stone. In his mind, he recognized feeling flustered as well as cornered, and asserted mental controls to prevent an unnatural rise of color to his face.

 

His words careful, almost stumbling, Kirk pressed, “You _do_ know that, don’t you?”

 

Spock nodded quickly, human though the response was. “I am afraid that I have forgotten several pressing matters to which I must attend before retiring for the evening. May we postpone the remainder of our game?”

 

“Of course,” Kirk replied. The way his eyes turned hooded seemed to indicate that he knew something which Spock did not.

 

“Then I will take my leave.” Spock rose more quickly than usual and paced to the door.

 

Before he could palm it open, Kirk called, “Spock.”

 

He almost did not respond. It would have been a simple matter to continue as if he had not heard Jim’s call, but that would have been dishonest. Spock’s fingers stopped short of the sensor and he slowly lowered his hand. He did not turn, however; he did not want to risk the possibility that his expression was not as controlled as it should be, that something in his too-human eyes would betray him.

 

“I mean it. You’re not alone here – you’re _never_ alone. If you need company, if you need…anything…you can come to us.”

 

That was incomprehensible to Spock, and a shiver ran through him as he tried to digest the emotion that this evoked. Though he could not identify it, he at least knew that it was a negative one. Anger? Affront? Abruptly, he demanded, “ _Why_? You barely know me. You did not even like me when we met. Why would you offer this?”

 

Enough time passed that Spock concluded that he would receive no answer, and then Kirk sighed. “Because…maybe I know what it’s like when you need somebody to offer, and no one does.” A rustle of cloth betrayed some nervous gesture, perhaps a shrug, or half of one. “You deserve better than that.”

 

Spock started to respond, found no words waiting for him, and settled on merely breathing steadily. To his mortification, the color that he had suppressed before rose to heat his cheeks. It had been years since he had lost control in such a manner, and even the shame that he felt at his reaction was an unacceptably indulgent emotional response. This was intolerable; Jim had done nothing to prompt such a violent reaction. Spock should be calm; he should be able to reply to his captain. He should not be so overcome.

 

“You don’t have to stay any longer, Spock; it’s alright if you need to go now.”

 

Gratitude welled up in Spock’s throat, but the only thing he seemed capable of was triggering the door sensor. As soon as the panel slid aside, he fled.

 

* * * * *

 

The corridors were still mostly empty as Spock navigated toward the mess hall. Alpha shift would not begin for another two point three hours, and most crewmen not currently on duty were still sleeping. Spock could almost feel them, a cloud of consciousness sequestered beyond each bulkhead, hints of life perceptible on a telepathic plane. It was not like the firm presence of Vulcan that had once sat immutable in the back of his mind, but even this indistinct shadow was a comfort of sorts.

 

Spock consulted his PADD in the turbolift, reviewing his agenda to confirm his recall and reading over the additional notes appended to the mission logs by the gamma shift commander. Their next mission was already underway; they had broken orbit of Pegasii-Beta II and were en route to the Janus system by way of Edian-Delta, where they were to conduct a pre-colonization survey of the temperate landmasses. After concluding the survey, the Enterprise was scheduled for a diplomatic visit to the inhabitants of Janus V, and afterwards to conduct a production and safety review of the operational facilities of the mining colony on Janus VI. This was to be followed by biannual physicals for all mining colony inhabitants, as required by Starfleet regulations. Upon completion of these duties, the crew would be given four days’ shore leave.

 

The Enterprise’s schedule for the next three weeks was what Kirk termed a “milk run” as it involved a low level of risk and would not require the participation of the entire crew. As such, he had scheduled a series of tactical drills which Spock needed to coordinate so as not to unduly disrupt the normal operation of the ship. The drills, which would involve tactical, engineering and command personnel, would afford his own science teams time to prepare for the survey and to wrap up any personal projects being conducted in the labs.

 

Upon reaching the corridor junction which led to the officer’s mess, Spock stopped abruptly. He could hear two voices hushed in conversation at the other end of the hallway, the Captain and Doctor McCoy. To most other crewmen, their discussion would have been discrete and unintelligible, but Spock could hear them both clearly from where he stood. He would have continued on and simply ignored the conversation as politeness required, except that he heard his name a second time while he hesitated. Surely if they were talking about him in an open corridor, he had a right to know what they were saying. Spock resumed walking at his usual pace; subterfuge was not called for in this instance.

 

“…been off lately,” Kirk was saying. “He seems so alone sometimes, and I’m just worried.”

 

“I know you are, Jim. But he’s fine, as far as I can medically – ” McCoy broke off as Spock rounded the corner and shifted his entire affect from furtive to his usual antisocial manner. “It’s five in the morning, Spock. Don’t you sleep?”

 

“Vulcans require less sleep than humans. And as you are also awake at this hour, I find your statement hypocritical.”

 

Kirk snorted and motioned toward the officer’s mess. “Come on; I need coffee.”

 

Spock stared openly at McCoy, trying to locate the residue of his previous expression – the one that implied guilt or fear at being caught. He could find no trace of it.

 

McCoy bristled and then examined himself for imperfections before snapping, “Take a holo; it lasts longer.”

 

Spock arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

 

“Hey. Separate.” Kirk inserted himself between them even though no confrontation had yet taken place, and motioned again at the officer’s mess. “You can bicker over breakfast; I’m starving here.”

 

“That is an exaggeration.” The moment the remark left his lips, Spock had to fight an impulse to grimace and will down the heat of a blood rushing to color his face. After their conversation many months ago concerning Tarsus IV, such a callous remark should not have –

 

McCoy snorted. “I’ll say.” He rapped the back of his hand against Kirk’s belly, ignoring Kirk’s glare, and stated, “It’s a good thing you spend so much time in the gym.”

 

Kirk’s nostril twitched and to Spock’s mind, the expression on his face was either baleful or annoyed. Then again, perhaps it was neither; Kirk possessed a distressingly wide array of emotional responses even in common situations. He made no verbal response, however; merely offered a gesture that humans employed to invite casual companionship, and turned to enter the mess hall.

 

Spock hesitated, still expecting a negative reaction to his thoughtless comment, but none came. He slipped past Kirk, whose face was beginning to show renewed concern at Spock’s behavior, and approached the queue at the food processors. Out of habit, he stood aside to allow the captain to precede him.

 

“So,” McCoy opened, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waited his turn behind Spock at the food processor. “I hear we’re playing safety inspectors in a few weeks.”

 

Kirk removed a tray from the processor, frowned at the food he had been provided, and then replied, “We get a stopover at Janus V first. The natives requested a visit since we’ll be in their system anyway.”

 

Spock punched his selection into the processor and clasped his hands behind his back while the computer completed his order. “They have concerns?”

 

“They supply the Federation mining colony on Janus VI with basic necessities on occasion, and are apparently unhappy with the compensation they receive.” Kirk tapped his foot against a chair leg, his tray balanced in his hands, clearly impatient to begin eating. “Ore holds no value on their world, so no matter how much the miners pay them…”

 

“Twice nothing is still nothing,” McCoy quipped. It sounded rhythmic, like a quote of some sort.

 

Spock filed the adage away for future reference, its meaning apparent to him for once, as it was a mathematical statement. “Our information on the inhabitants of Janus V is spare. They are an insular culture, non-violent but wary of outworlders. Their cultural readings suggest a lack of xenophobia, however; they are simply uninterested in the activities of the galactic community.”

 

“Mmm.” Kirk’s eyes unfocused, distracting Spock from the appearance of his food tray. “They may not be xenophobic, but I’m betting they’re good and stuck up.”

 

Spock blinked as he parsed that statement for meaning. “I beg your pardon?”

 

McCoy went to nudge Spock with an elbow and stopped himself at the last second. “Some of us want to eat sometime this year, Spock. Take your damn food and get out of the way.”

 

Six months ago, McCoy’s tone and word choices would have offended him, but he understood now that McCoy meant no disrespect or harm, and so ignored the outburst.

 

“Superior,” Kirk told Spock. “They stay out of outside matters because they find us below them.”

 

“Ah. Arrogant.” Spock collected his breakfast and threaded his way to a table.

 

“They’re also telepaths,” McCoy called over his shoulder, at Spock’s departing back.

 

“I am aware of that fact,” Spock replied; he did not bother adding that he was aware of _all_ recorded data on the native inhabitants of Janus V, as he possessed a perfect recall and had reviewed the files just this morning. Instead, he paused to inspect the available tables, chose the one which had most recently been wiped down by the cleaning staff, and sat. “You will no doubt find them disturbing, Captain.”

 

“Oh? I don’t know about that, Mister Spock.” Kirk slid into the chair opposite him, leaving McCoy behind to await his food selection. “I don’t find _you_ disturbing, after all.”

 

“My primary mode of communication is verbal,” Spock countered. “The inhabitants of Janus V have only vestigial vocal cords, and must therefore communicate directly mind-to-mind.” He picked up a spoon and stirred his oatmeal. Briefly, he felt a pang of longing for actual _mut_ grainmeal, but like Vulcan itself, the plant staple was no more. That line of thought was not constructive, and the moment he realized his indulgence, Spock tamped it down. Oatmeal was a perfectly acceptable substitute, and tasted nearly the same; there was no logic in preferring one over the other.

 

“They already agreed to use a signing language with us,” Kirk told him, distracted the consummation of his own morning meal. “Though Uhura mentioned that there are colors to it as well? In any case, they understand spoken Federation Standard; they don’t have ears, but they can interpret the vibrations of the sounds of our speech. Uhura can translate their responses for us. It’s a considerate gesture on their part.”

 

McCoy arrived then, settling into a chair perpendicular to them both in time to overhear Kirk’s response. “Well, good. You know what I think about telepaths.”

 

Spock swirled his oatmeal around some more and then turned the spoon to scrape the sides of the bowl.

 

“Bones, has anybody told you that you can be a real dick sometimes?”

 

A moment passed in silence and then Spock raised his eyes to give Kirk a blank look. “There is no need to reprimand the Doctor on my behalf, Captain. Many humans find the idea of telepathic contact repulsive.” He returned to his oatmeal, which seemed to be even more tasteless than usual. Replicated food never seemed to have the right flavor or texture, but its purpose was to provide nutrition, not enjoyment. Still, he could not help but recall how his mother had disdained the use of a replicator in their home on Vulcan. How she had removed it from its power source and used it to store dish towels rather than for its intended purpose. Sarek had always frowned upon seeing it, Vulcan or no.

 

“Shit,” McCoy mumbled. “Spock, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“I have no knowledge of your actual meaning, as I am _not_ privy to your thoughts.” Spock debated a moment on saying more, and then an unaccustomed sense of pettiness made him add, “Nor would I wish to be. The idea of being inside of yours repulses me.” He set his spoon in the bowl immediately after and unhanded it. “There is a replicator malfunction. This selection does not meet specifications.”

 

Even Spock could sense how uncomfortable the silence became, and then McCoy heaved an overly emotional sigh, setting aside his utensils as he did so. “Spock, I’m sorry for what I said. It was mean-spirited, and I wasn’t thinking when I said it.”

 

Spock felt his cheek twitch and sniffed to clear his nasal passages to make it seem less of an emotional response. It was _not_ an emotional response anyway; his cheek itched. “To apologize is not logical. The prior statement cannot be erased, therefore your words are meaningless. And you have not ceased to regard telepaths with negative emotion, so in addition, the attempt at an apology is misleading at best.”

 

In Spock’s periphery, McCoy straightened in his seat and bristled. “Dammit, Spock! I know you know what an apology is for – you can’t possibly tell me that you don’t know exactly what remorse feels like! For once, will you just drop the stuffy Vulcan act – ”

 

“Doctor McCoy, stand down!” Kirk pounded a fist on the table between them to emphasize the order.

 

The entire mess hall fell silent at that, and Spock imagined that he could hear the heartbeats of his table companions as they forcibly breathed to calm themselves. At length, Spock roused himself enough to place his napkin on the table beside his now unwanted breakfast. Then he rose without looking at either of them. “I accept your apology, Doctor. Please excuse me.”

 

Spock left the mess hall without bussing his tray, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Kirk hiss at McCoy, “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” It did not matter. McCoy had expressed his opinion on a topic, and no one had decreed that all other beings in the vicinity had to share or approve of that opinion. This was why the Federation guaranteed freedom of speech to its citizens. No one could expect that all of the trillions of beings in the galaxy would be of one mind on all things. McCoy was free to have any opinion he wished of telepaths, so long as he acted out no crimes as a result.

 

Still. Spock thought that if he were to feel any emotional response to the Doctor’s beliefs, it should be anger, or perhaps disappointment at a lack of appreciation for the principles of IDIC. Not sadness.

 

* * * * *

 

Kirk conducted himself as if nothing untoward had occurred in the mess hall that morning, which puzzled Spock. Normally, Kirk was a very empathic man, possessed of an irritating degree of consideration for the emotional well-being of his crew members – even of Spock, in spite of repeated reminders as to the nature of Vulcan emotional control. He also insisted on far more decorum than Spock had anticipated at the inception of their five-year mission, meaning that in addition to further overtures meant to allay any emotional discomfort he may believe Spock to be suffering from, Spock expected a reprimand of some degree for his own participation in the scene created in the mess hall. The senior staff could not be seen to be at odds with each other in front of the crew. They must present a united front and settle any personal disputes in a more private venue.

 

Neither expected outcome occurred, and when alpha shift drew to a close with their arrival at the Edian system projected for 0400 the next morning, Spock began to wonder if Kirk’s indifference should concern him. Had the incident been more serious or disruptive than Spock realized? Would the reprimand be formal and written rather than verbal? Would it appear in his personnel file that he had been emotionally compromised again, and this time by nothing more than a passing comment made by a colleague over the morning meal? The odd crawling sensation in his intestines must be what humans referred to as anxiety. It was most unpleasant.

 

Spock turned his station over to his replacement at 1800 hours and logged himself off duty. As he passed the captain’s chair on his way to the turbolift, he glanced at the back of Kirk’s head and tried to ignore how his pace slowed. Kirk normally addressed him at this point to say good evening, or to reiterate plans to meet later in a social setting. It was an unnecessary habit, as Spock had informed the captain on numerous occasions, and yet Kirk’s breaking of it perturbed him.

 

He entered the turbolift and took hold of the control bar, only to quell an impulse to start when Kirk darted unexpectedly inside with him as the doors hissed shut. “You’re coming with me.”

 

Spock glanced at him and then faced forward again. “Yes sir. May I inquire as to the consequences you have chosen in response to my conduct this morning?”

 

Kirk blinked a few times and then twisted to face Spock with his arm partially twisted behind him on the control rod. “What?”

 

“In the mess hall. I acted inappropriately.”

 

“When?” Kirk demanded.

 

This was not what Spock had expected. Surely Kirk did not mean that he failed to recall the events which transpired over breakfast. “I was…unprofessional. The Doctor is free to verbally express any personal opinion he wishes while off duty. I had no right to react offense – ”

 

“Spock, shut up.” Kirk faced forward again, one foot now tapping anxiously at the wall panel near the floor.

 

Spock swallowed and tried to identify his additional error, for he had clearly made one. Even accounting for the irrationality of human social interactions, however, he could not isolate any particular moment since shift’s end that could explain why Kirk now seemed so agitated that he was actually beginning to sweat at the effort of maintaining his professionalism.

 

By the time they arrived on deck eight, officer’s quarters, Spock was calculating the odds that his abdominal discomfort would result in ulceration. It was a most undesirable state of being, and he resolved to put sufficient emotional controls in place during his evening meditation to prevent the sensation from ever recurring. He hardly wanted to suffer physical damage over a matter of emotions which should not have affected him in the first place.

 

Kirk led the way to his own quarters and stood aside to allow Spock to enter, then palmed the door panel and instituted a privacy lock. He sighed, arms crossed as he angled himself back to lean an alarming amount of his upper body weight against the bulkhead.

 

Spock swallowed and stood to attention. This silent regard could not herald anything minor. It was a human tactic intended to instill shame and nervousness in an individual as a prelude to a reprimand; he recognized it from his own command training, and utilized it regularly. Spock had clearly committed more serious an offense than he had realized. Again, he tried in vain to identify the transgression so that he would have some idea of what to expect.

 

“At ease,” Kirk admonished gently. “You aren’t in trouble.”

 

“Then may I inquire as to the reason for the formality of this encounter?” Spock considered the way that Kirk glanced aside in response to his question. “Has a negative event taken place?”

 

“No, Spock. I don’t have bad news for you.” His posture changed, softening in an unquantifiable manner, and he gestured to the chairs they usually occupied when playing chess. “Why don’t you sit down. I’d like to talk to you.”

 

Spock flicked his gaze to the offered chair but made no move toward it. “Captain, I am aware that my conduct and performance has been erratic of late, and I would like to assure you that I will remedy the situation immediately. I understand the need to maintain order within the chain of command, and so I will accept any reprimand you deem appropriate. There is no need for an explanation, and you need not fear that this will affect my regard for you as...” Spock trailed off, partly because he realized that he was dangerous close to a ramble, but more due to the expression materializing on his captain’s face.

 

“…as a friend?” Kirk offered, his expression hopeful.

 

Spock swallowed, his fingers tightening momentarily behind his back. He should not have presumed to even begin that sentence, but neither could he lie with Kirk watching him in that manner. “Yes, sir.”

 

His tone neutral, Kirk asked, “Are you afraid I don’t return that sentiment?”

 

Automatically, Spock replied, “Fear is an emotion.” He tried to maintain eye contact, but could not. With his eyes trained resolutely on the chair behind Kirk, he started to explain, “I do not intend to take liberties…” But he was uncertain of how to finish that thought, so instead, he stated, “You are my commanding officer. Your behavior toward me reflects that; you are kind to all of your subordinates, often to a fault. You forgive many things which a more seasoned commander would not due to your awareness of the events which led to your holding command over men and women who were very recently your equals and classmates. I assure you that there is no need to make special allowances for _my_ behavior, however. If my performance is unsatisfactory, it should be corrected. Any…affection…or additional responsibility you may feel – ”

 

“Do you think that I’m going easy on you because I’m fond of you, Mister Spock? Or because I feel sorry for you?”

 

Spock shut his mouth, blinked a few times, and then admitted, “I do not know. Are you?”

 

Kirk turned away and heaved an alarmingly deep sigh. “Your performance is exemplary as always. That’s not why I’m worried, and it’s not why I brought you here.”

 

“I assure you, there is no need for concern. I am quite well, sir.”

 

A huff of air sounded from where Kirk continued to regard the bulkhead with his back to Spock. “McCoy has brought some concerns to me. Nothing specific,” he hurried to add, pivoting back so that most of his body was still angled away while still able to look at Spock sidelong. “But it’s on top of some things that I’ve been noticing too. I _am_ worried, Spock. And I think that it’s justified. This past year hasn’t been easy for any of us, and if you think that I don’t notice the strain you’re under, then… Spock, if you needed help – any sort of help – would you ask for it?”

 

Spock straightened, and for a moment, he wondered why he felt threatened by Kirk’s words. “Am I correct in my assumption that this is on the record, sir?”

 

Wary now, Kirk turned fully toward him, his posture stiff and alert. “Why? Would it make a difference if we were off?”

 

“No, sir. I simply wished for clarification.”

 

Kirk stared at him for long enough, his expression inscrutable, that Spock felt himself tensing further. “McCoy said you’ve been having episodes, that it’s possible that something’s wrong with you.” He took a cautious step forward and Spock backed away from the hand that Kirk had raised in his direction. He probably had not meant to touch Spock – humans made such gestures quite often without competing them. Kirk withdrew anyway, putting the table between them as if he understood that the barrier was perhaps necessary. “You can talk to me, you know. On or off the record. About anything.”

 

“I speak to you quite often, Captain.” Spock knew that he was being deliberately obtuse, and also that it was unworthy of him, and yet he continued on. “Are there additional topics which you would like me to discuss?”

 

Kirk’s face changed, and for a moment, Spock could feel the disappointment radiating off of him. It was not pleasant, and he felt shame for having induced it. “You know what I mean.”

 

“I do not,” Spock countered.

 

It was unexpected, how clearly Kirk’s expression conveyed that he knew how blatantly Spock had just lied. “Alright, Commander.” Even the words themselves sounded of sadness and a peculiar brand of defeat. “If that’s what you need.”

 

Spock’s throat convulsed into an unanticipated swallow at the backwash of emotion that Kirk’s statement provoked. For a moment, he experienced the strongest urge to refute that – to state in no uncertain terms that it was _not_ what he needed. Even more inexplicably, he wanted to shout at Jim that he should know that. The urge passed, though, and Spock noted that in the wake of it, he felt faintly ill. “May I be excused, Captain? I am in need of meditation, and I have several reports to review before I retire for the evening.”

 

Kirk bit his lip and nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you. Dismissed.”

 

Spock left without another word, though he lingered for a long moment in the corridor with his back to the closed door of Kirk’s quarters, pondering the irrational urge to go back.

 

* * * * *

 

Edian-Delta IV had been deemed free of sentient life and relatively safe. It was also the first opportunity afforded them for a planet-side away mission for nearly two months, and as a result, they had an abundance of volunteers for the survey. Their responsibilities included little of true import beyond cataloguing the native flora, a simple task for any Starfleet officer, but Spock’s performance still suffered enough that the captain noticed. Less than ten minutes after beaming down, Spock had suffered an episode. It had been weeks since the last one, and he had almost mistaken it for a reaction to something in the air or an allergy. After it passed, Spock continued with his duties, but then another one came, and another, and another one after that.

 

Spock had managed to make himself scarce the first few times he felt his face flush and his ears grow hot, but the fifth time, Kirk was talking and following him around with a specimen collection kit, and Spock had already used the call-of-nature excuse once that hour. He lowered himself to one knee in front of a yellow flower – a weed that grew all over the surface of this region of the continent – and tried to make it look as if the flower had absorbed his attention as he fought the urge to start panting. As the atmosphere contained a more than sufficient quantity of oxygen, there was no cause for the way his lungs fought to labor after the abundant air.

 

Kirk stood over him, facing the other direction, and let out a long, satisfied exhale. “It smells like springtime, Spock. Sun and water and chlorophyll. Did the wind on Vulcan ever smell like this?”

 

“Only near the poles during the brief rainy season.” Spock stared unseeing at the tricorder display and sank his free hand into the grass to steady himself. He almost felt nauseous. The sensation fluttering about in his abdomen was most uncomfortable.

 

“Mm,” Kirk replied, distracted by…whatever typically distracted him. There were so many possibilities with him. Spock could not focus enough to determine the exact object of his attention right now. “Hey, there’s a spring feeding a river further ahead. We already have like ten of those dandelion things; come on. We should see if they have any fresh water crustaceans or arthropods.” He paused and his voice sounded strange to Spock’s ears when he softened it to add, “Or frogs.”

 

Was that the tone that humans labeled as ‘wistful’? Or perhaps ‘nostalgic,’ in remembrance of a youth that could not be recaptured? The thought of a tiny version of James Kirk catching frogs on Earth was a strange one, but also…the only descriptor that came to mind was _sepia_ , and that made little sense to Spock in this context. The imagined image of a boy-Jim sparked a chain of recollections for him. As a boy on Vulcan, Spock had often occupied himself by digging _valit-lar_ from their nests in the desert. His mother had not appreciated his bringing all of his finds back to the house, but she had smiled at his enthusiasm anyway. Spock had ceased such excavations when he turned seven; such activities were unworthy of the future husband of T’Pring. Or so T’Pring’s clan mother had told him.

 

“You do realize that the probability of this planet having developed amphibians similar enough to Earth’s to be called ‘frogs’ approaches nil. Your desire to search for such a life form is illogical.”

 

Kirk made an exasperated sound. “It’s not meant to be logical, Spock. It’s – humans do that, you know. We look for familiar things in alien environments.”

 

“You anthropomorphize and then humanize objects which should be taken on their own merits.”

 

“Do you enjoy crushing every iota of fun I might get out of survey duty?”

 

Spock paused long enough to acknowledge that Kirk was correct about his intentions in responding to the frog comment in such a manner. He would need to meditate on the cause of this lapse. If nothing else, the odd sensations rebelling against his control were causing him to behave irrationally, and with temper. This was not acceptable. At the same time, he recognized that a portion of those emotions consisted of various shades of jealousy. Jim had been permitted to have fun as a child. He had been permitted to hunt frogs and enjoy it. He had never been castigated for it or told that his enjoyment at any pastime was unseemly for a boy of five. Or seven, or twelve, or –

 

Kirk sighed and Spock listened to him kick at pebbles and undergrowth. “Are you done over there yet?”

 

“One moment,” Spock replied, fiddling with the tricorder. His knees felt weak; if he tried to stand now, he was sure to stumble, and that would alert Kirk to his condition. He only hoped that Kirk was not standing at an angle that would allow him to see the tricorder’s readout, since he had locked the display to prevent an accidental erasure of data.

 

Kirk paced about, toeing at loose rocks and twigs, touching various non-poisonous plants and even poking some sort of insect hive with a stick. Spock considered asking him to leave the insects alone, but when he tipped his head to peer over at Kirk’s crouched form, he found himself breathless instead. Sweat prickled all over his body and a hot flash swept through him so unexpectedly that he must have made some noise.

 

“Spock?”

 

Spock gulped in hard, labored breaths, tricorder forgotten, and gradually folded over until his forehead touched the cool grass. And _that_ was bliss because he was so hot all of a sudden and the shaded greenery felt so refreshing…

 

Rapid thumps of bootsteps carried Kirk over to his bowed form, and a hand landed like a brand on Spock’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did something sting you?”

 

Spock felt his communicator buzzing against his hip and blinked his eyes open, too overcome to really take heed of it. His heart felt like a tattered ship’s sail in a sustained wind, fluttery-thump and ragged in his side, and he couldn’t really focus because he felt like his head was about to float away from the rest of him. His respirations were harsh in his own ears and yet distant because there was blood rushing past his ear drums in a near-deafening roar, and he was trembling now and too hot, and it was all he could do to crumple over on his side without making any unnecessary noises.

 

Kirk’s communicator chirped as he activated it and called for McCoy, his hand shifting down to rest between Spock’s shoulder blades. “Bones, we have a medical emergency.”

 

Before Kirk could say anything more, McCoy’s voice came back like an echo in a tin can. “ _Are you with Spock? I just got an alarm on his biomonitor, and I can’t raise him._ ”

 

“Yeah, he collapsed taking some readings. Where are you?”

 

“ _Original beam down point. I’ve got a fix on you. Is he lucid?_ ”

 

Kirk leaned over him and Spock swallowed hard as his stomach roiled. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel as if he would regurgitate any of its contents, and yet there was an uncomfortable heat low in his abdomen that caused his throat to constrict. “He’s conscious, and flushed.” Kirk ran the back of a knuckle over Spock’s cheek and Spock shuddered and jerked with a sharp whimper. Sparkles and prickles of sensation danced across the surface of his skin like tiny needles in the wake of Kirk’s touch. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t pleasant either, and it made the burn in his abdomen more pronounced. “Kind of warm to the touch. I can’t tell if he’s hotter than normal, though – he’s still cooler than me. Sweating pretty badly, too, but he’s shivering like he’s cold.”

 

Spock licked his lips because his mouth felt dry, like it was stuffed with cotton, only to find that he was actually salivating more than usual. He blinked a trickle of perspiration from his eyes as he counted his respirations – shallow and rapid and…he lost count. Inconsequential. All of his symptoms seemed to show signs of imminent vomiting. It had been so long since he had been ill that he must have forgotten what it felt like, exactly; he was going to be sick. That must have been it. Kirk was rubbing circles in the center of his back in a manner that he imagined was supposed to sooth according to human social norms, but it only intensified his discomfort. He felt as if a banked coal were nestled inside of him, somewhere below his navel. The flush worsened and yes, he was definitely going to be sick in a moment. He felt vertigo more sharply than he had thought possible, and tried to anchor himself to an awareness of his surroundings. The realization that he could not nearly pushed him to outright panic.

 

Kirk grabbed at his shoulder as he started to pull himself back up onto his knees. “Hey, no – stay put. McCoy’s on his way.”

 

“I am…going to – ” Spock tried to say more, but he had to let his forehead drop back down as a wave of sickening heat coursed though him, back rounding in response to the way the billowing in his stomach seemed to drop lower. He had managed to get his knees back under himself, and he must have communicated enough for Kirk to understand because now there were hands supporting him around his midsection. Spock tried to pull away, crawl forward so that he wouldn’t make a mess of the Captain’s uniform too, but Kirk dragged him back and held him more tightly. Spock’s breath caught, and then he groaned as the muscles in his lower back tightened, sending a rush of pressure up his spine to momentarily steal his vision. He tried swallowing to alleviate the immediate threat of illness.

 

“Okay,” Kirk soothed, one arm around Spock’s waist and the other rubbing his back again, up between his scapulae.

 

It must have been solely a human gesture because all it did to Spock was make him want to squirm away. He couldn’t remember his mother ever engaging in such an act when he had been ill as a child. Spock braced his knees more widely on the ground to compensate for his uncertain balance and felt his teeth clack a few times as he shivered and quaked from the nausea. It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as he remembered it being when he had been much younger and prone to catching Terran flu viruses; he was grateful for that much. As long as he remained still and kept his head down, he felt that he would be able to maintain control over his gastrointestinal system, though he ceded the possibility that he might pass out from the way he was breathing. He didn’t have enough energy to prevent himself from hyperventilating, or from tearing up clumps of hopelessly crushed vegetation when his hands involuntarily clenched. The chlorophyll stained bright green splotches into his palms like patches of sunburn. He could feel the muscles of his stomach and abdomen begin to cramp from the tension.

 

Just when Spock suspected that he would indeed lose consciousness, McCoy arrived in a flurry of too much multidirectional energy; it grated on his every sense. Spock heard the doctor snap something about heart rate and blood pressure, and when he felt the sharp sting against his neck of a hypospray, he welcomed the blackness.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock woke in sickbay feeling muzzy and hypersensitive. When he peeled his eyes open, everything looked too bright, like splinters across his vision. He clenched his eyes shut again in an act of self preservation, but the light continued to stab at his brain through his eyelids.

 

Somewhere off to his left, McCoy murmured, “It’s just the sedative wearing off. Your stupid hybrid biology acts like it’s coming off a bender every time I medicate you.”

 

Spock should have a smart comeback for that. Nothing came to mind, though.

 

McCoy sighed as if his failure to respond in kind were evidence of just how ill he was. Perhaps it was. “How are you feeling?”

 

_Like death warmed over_ , he thought automatically. What a curious human expression. He understood the meaning behind it now, even if it employed excessive hyperbole and was too overly dramatic to justify his using it aloud. Instead, he said, “I would like to protest the excessive level of illumination.” And then he suppressed the urge to cringe at the way his words slurred together.

 

There was fondness in McCoy’s voice when he replied, “Lights are at thirty percent, Spock. It’s not excessive.”

 

“Oh.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud; the vocalization served no purpose. Superfluous speech was to be avoided as it was not logical to speak without clear intent. He risked slitting his eyes open again and winced as the brightness smeared across his field of vision.

 

“Well,” McCoy sighed, moving and rustling about in the background. “Your heart rate returned to normal shortly after I sedated you. The rest of your readings took about half an hour to normalize. I’m thinking this is some sort of chronic condition, but don’t ask me what triggered it. I’d like you to remain here overnight for observation, and we’ll discuss options in the morning.”

 

“Very well.” Spock squinted up at the sickbay ceiling and waited for his mental controls to correct the conditions leading in the general direction of a migraine. Some of the pounding faded from the forefront of his conscious mind and he felt the tension in the  muscles around his eyes begin to loosen. “Have you finished the analysis of my genetic code?”

 

From somewhere beyond Spock’s feet, McCoy replied, “Prelim’s all done. There’s no degradation and no damage to the genetic structure beyond what you’d expect to find in a being exposed to the mild levels of radiation found in a space-faring environment. And the damage we did find isn’t across the board; it looks like it’s confined to a few cells here and there, not a factor permeating your entire body. It’s not anywhere near severe enough to affect your health.” He shuffled back into Spock’s range of vision, Feinberger extended. “Hold still.” He began to wave it in slow arcs over Spock’s forehead, eyes fixed on the readings displayed on the monitors above Spock’s bed. “You know, your DNA is like a friggin’ work of art? I’m thinking maybe that’s the problem. Naturally bred life forms have a lot of junk cluttering up their genetic code – extras, copies, some throwbacks, some time-released sequences that just never get triggered in modern times or whose triggers were bred out of the species eons ago. You don’t have any of that.” McCoy snapped the Feinberger into his palm with a flick of the wrist and fingers, then leaned over him a bit, brows puckered as he studied Spock. “Your pupils are a bit constricted.”

 

“I am experiencing a mild headache,” Spock confessed.

 

“And you’re using your hoodoo to cut off the pain receptors, aren’t you.”

 

The doctor’s intonation did not suggest that his statement was intended as an actual question. Spock identified the rhetorical usage and remained silent.

 

McCoy rolled his eyes as he straightened, thereby removing himself from Spock’s field of vision. “Thought so. I really wish you wouldn’t do that. If you don’t tell me what you’re feeling, I can’t get an accurate picture of your symptoms.”

 

“You are correct, of course.” Spock recognized an impulse to curl protectively around himself and dispelled it. “I will report such things to you in future.”

 

“Oh, goodie.” McCoy sighed quietly over in the corner by his instrument cabinet, then walked back in Spock’s direction. “Anyway, I was thinking that with our imperfect understanding of so-called junk DNA, it’s possible that some minor components were left out of your spliced code – something that maybe activates so rarely that we’ve never captured it in experiments. Or maybe something with a trigger so off the wall that we haven’t even thought to test for it. And maybe the effects of that absence are cumulative, like a yearly clean-up switch or something cyclic that’s never activated in you, which would explain why you’re only now showing symptoms. It had to build up to a threshold point.”

 

Spock breathed. Slowly. “An interesting hypothesis.” He laced his fingers together over his stomach.

 

“Bah,” McCoy grunted. “It’s just an idea, and not even a very good one. Spock…” He placed his hands on the edge of the biobed next to Spock’s hip and leaned forward to catch his eye. “Look, the truth is that you’re healthy. Based on everything I’m capable of testing for or looking at, you’re just dandy. If this really is something physiological – something genetic like I’ve just suggested – then trying to find it will be like….like looking for one specific needle in a needle-stack.”

 

Spock arched an eyebrow. “I do not believe that you have employed that euphemism correctly.”

 

“I employed it just fine, you dang literal-minded Vulcan. And anyway, you’re missin’ my point.”

 

“Which is?”

 

McCoy studied him, and the care with which he appeared to be choosing his approach puzzled Spock. Gently, McCoy asked, “Is it possible this isn’t physiological?”

 

Spock felt an eyebrow twitch and then flicker upwards as he considered this. “You believe the cause to be environmental? We have ruled out food allergies or contaminants as a source. The remaining factors are airborne allergens or contaminants, surfactants and other chemicals used throughout the ship, cleaning supplies, materials used in the manufacture of ship components, deliberate attempts at poison – ”

 

“Psychological,” McCoy cut in. He sucked in a deeper, perhaps preparatory breath as he watched Spock’s face first go blank and then turn disapproving. “Spock, I think it’s psychological.”

 

“You are mistaken. Vulcans do not – ”

 

“Oh, poppycock! Let’s just leave out the part where you aren’t entirely Vulcan, shall we?”

 

Spock frowned, which was not an acceptable response, and then slackened his features again.

 

McCoy kept going as if Spock’s reactions were not relevant. “You are one of only ten thousand survivors of a telepathic species that once numbered in the billions. You had almost every single bond and peripheral link you’ve ever formed ripped outa your skull without any sort of warning, _and_ I know that there was some sort of psychic net or cloud or…or diaspora, or whatever, that you were all connected through, which is now gone. That causes trauma, Spock. Ongoing trauma, which you have not sought any kind of treatment for. Telepaths like you aren’t supposed to be alone in their heads – there are biological precedents in nature, not to mention specific studies on Vulcans who lose either some or all of their bonds in a sudden fashion, or who have been isolated from telepathic contact. Do you really think you’re the only one suffering? I know you’ve been readin’ the reports from the temporary settlement. You must be aware of how bad it is for some of them.”

 

“I assure you, my mental health is adequate.”

 

“Is it?” McCoy shot back. “Because I’m not all that sanguine about your state of mind, to tell you the truth. The way you’ve been actin’ since the Narada isn’t natural. You aren’t in shock, and you should be. You spent, what, a few hours mulling things over after Jim provoked your inner savage? And then nothing. You don’t talk about Vulcan, you don’t react when somebody else talks about Vulcan. _At all_. You don’t even stiffen up like you’re suppressing a reaction. It’s like you’re a damn automaton, Spock, and as much as I’d like to accuse you of being an unfeeling bastard, I do know better. So maybe you can explain to me why you’re suddenly a picture of perfect indifference.”

 

Spock glared at McCoy, but he was reasonably certain that to the doctor, his expression remained cold and impassive, as he preferred it. “Perhaps my hybrid genetics afforded me some protection from the shock of the destruction of my home planet. Or perhaps my bonds were weaker than a full-blooded Vulcan’s, or not as numerous, and so their loss did not harm me as severely as it did others. Perhaps my mind was not as fully connected to the collective unconscious and so was more shielded from the backlash and dissolution of that psychic field. Perhaps I simply _do not care_ as I am _Vulcan_ and I follow the mind rules, and excessive displays of grief and disbelief are not logical, and indulging in them would be against my interpretation of the tenets of Surak.” Spock stopped, breathing more heavily than was warranted, and checked himself. Anger. He compartmentalized it for later contemplation and returned his gaze, once again controlled, to McCoy. “Perhaps I am simply not traumatized. I have been trained as a Starfleet officer to disassociate from events so that I may continue to act effectively as an officer. This is a complement to my training as a Vulcan. I was uniquely prepared to weather this experience.”

 

McCoy merely looked at him, and he appeared… Spock wasn’t sure, actually. “Yeah,” McCoy breathed. “Perhaps. Or you could just be havin’ anxiety attacks. Some kind of PTSD.”

 

“Your hypothesis presumes an emotional reaction. I am not anxious.”

 

“Would you know it if you were?”

 

Spock opened his mouth, paused to genuinely consider that question, then closed it again. No, he would not necessarily know if he were. Assuming that the emotion escaped his controls to begin with, he was not certain that he would know it as anxiety, since he did not think that he could subjectively describe that emotional state if asked. And if it did _not_ escape his controls, he would never know. In the event that the emotion was buried deeply enough to remain hidden from him even during meditation, were it to grow to a certain threshold strength, it could conceivably manifest itself physically.

 

He tried to recall his mental state on the planet, analyzing his behavior during and between the episodes he had experienced during the mission. Though he could identify and categorize several instances of atypical behavior, he connected them with efforts to conceal his physical state. To his recollection, his behavior had not altered prior to the episodes, only after. That did not mean that there _weren’t_ precursors, however; merely that he was incapable of identifying any at this time. It was scientifically impossible to prove a negative.

 

“Spock?”

 

Spock looked up, and though he _felt_ nothing, he was not entirely certain that his face reflected it this time. Odd. Was this what humans referred to when they claimed an emotional feeling of numbness? “Yes, Doctor?”

 

“You do know there’s a difference between control and repression, right?”

 

Of course he did. Theoretically. In practice, however, he was beginning to have serious doubts as to the efficacy and quality of his training as a child, because simple control should not be so precarious a thing as Spock had always found it to be. “I…” Spock found himself without an ordered thought and stopped.

 

His voice soft enough to avoid breaking too harshly into Spock’s ruminations, McCoy enjoined, “At least think about what I’ve said. I’m not askin’ you to go all gung-ho about therapy and new age hippie healing circles. Just don’t rule out an emotional trigger, okay?”

 

Spock slanted his eyes to McCoy’s, took in the cast of his features and a host of expressions too subtle for Spock to interpret. He could recognize nothing except an odd kind of concern, much as he had seen on his mother’s face when he had come home from school with bloodied knuckles and nose and refused to speak of it, much less act as if he were hurt. And since he refused to hurt, she would hurt for him. It was an almost resigned sort of worry, as if McCoy knew better than to think Spock would accept his help, and yet could not stop himself from offering. Oddly enough, seeing this expression on McCoy’s face induced the same vague sense of shame in Spock that his mother’s had. He simultaneously disliked it and was glad of it. This reaction was not logical, and yet it _was_ familiar.

 

“I will consider your words,” Spock replied, guarded and unable to conceal it.

 

McCoy gave a single, curt nod. “That’s all I’m asking. You’re confined to the ship for the duration of the survey mission, just in case the cause was environmental. I’ll let you know if the samples turn up anything that affects Vulcan physiology.” Then he retreated to allow Spock to rest.

 

* * * * *

 

The natives of Janus V were short, squat, two-legged creatures well-adapted to the high gravity of their planet. They referred to themselves simply as The Children. Their skin consisted of hard, armor-plated coverings similar to earth armadillos. They possessed compound eyes which could extend beyond their sockets on short stalks of ganglionic nerve bundles, and they consumed nutrients via absorption through the skin while immersed in geothermic pools of mineral-rich slurry. They reproduced by the laying of eggs in caches consisting of thousands at a time. Most never hatched. According to their lore, their ancestors had gone a thousand years between hatchings, and the eggs would lay dormant until the proper time. Now, the unhatched eggs simply died and dried out into round lumps like geodes, the insides crystallized and the outer shells calcified into stone.

 

Captain Kirk appeared wary of their movements and did not seem able to decide how to react when they touched him, which was understandable as their limbs were very hard and their surface texture unpleasantly cold and rough. The Children were endlessly amused by Kirk’s discomfort and awkward attempts to communicate with the help of Uhura, a tricorder and a universal translator. Spock knew this because they told him so and gladly shared their mirth with him. In fact, they were not xenophobic at all, and Spock noted this correction to the official record on the species. Their minds were bright and open, guileless, filled with joy and life and happiness to meet others who were not like them. They found Spock fascinating and wished that they had aural devices like his ears so that they could hear the tinkling of their own limbs when they moved, and compare it to the bell sounds that Spock shared with his mind in return. They told him the legends of their ancestors and the story of the Chamber of Ages that they believed had given rise to their race, many thousands of years ago on another planet all together. He made extensive notes on the multi-legged silicate life forms that The Children claimed mystical descent from, and they exchanged theories on how they may have come to inhabit a planet that they obviously did not evolve on.

 

Spock caught himself regarding his crewmates with pity for the brightness that they could not perceive all around them, owing to their lack of strong telepathic abilities. When Kirk and Uhura looked at the surface of the planet, they saw only geological formations in shades of greys shot through with an occasional vein of crystal or raw metal. Spock, however, could see all of the colors on the spectrum of sight available to The Children, and it threatened to steal his breath in spite of his emotional controls. Their art was vibrant and complex despite the fact that it was indistinguishable from the surrounding rock formations when Spock attempted to view it for himself, through his own eyes. But that did not matter, as they freely shared the view through their own with him.

 

Spock’s interactions with The Children reached the point that he had ceased speaking altogether by the end of the day. It did not occur to him that anything odd was happening until he found himself staring at Kirk, awaiting a response to the invitation he had relayed from The Children for the Enterprise landing party to remain with them through the night. He was forced to repeat himself aloud, but only after Kirk’s face had transformed with concern and a hint of suspicion at Spock’s expectant, silent confusion.

 

Even after the verbal invitation had been relayed, Kirk continued to regard Spock with a troubled expression as he replied, “Please tell them that we are grateful for the offer, but that the environment here is…a little harsh for our kind. We would need more than the supplies we brought to be comfortable for the night.”

 

Beside Kirk, Uhura had long since ceased attempts to act as main translator, since Spock had so quickly taken to the task himself. The Children seemed to prefer him to mechanical devices anyway, as communicating with him, a fellow telepath, was natural to them. However, Uhura, too, looked upon Spock with a shadow of concern for his odd behavior, and it made him uneasy to watch her trade worried glances with Kirk in the silence of body language that The Children did not recognize as a form of communication and that Spock still experienced difficulty interpreting.

 

Spock nodded to Kirk and peered down at the cluster of beings arrayed about his legs. They reached to just above his waist when standing at ease, and Spock could easily reach to rest his palm over the shoulder of the one nearest to him. Its thoughts were a bright tinkle of glass ornaments glittering in his mind, its disposition too full of goodness to react in any way but understanding at the decline of their invitation. The Children understood the reluctance of their visitors, and laughed merrily at how dull their planet appeared to outside eyes. It made their home special to them, to be so beautiful only when The Children looked at it. They would welcome the landing party back in the morning, when the sun rose again.

 

When Spock materialized back in the transporter room of the Enterprise, he immediately missed the cluster of vibrant minds at his feet. He blamed the rapid onset of a migraine on the periodic transporter sickness that all frequent users suffered from now an again.

 

The Enterprise spent three days at Janus V before breaking orbit to journey to the mining colony on the next planet. Spock retired to his quarters at his usual time after a game of chess with the captain, upon which he had not been able to focus. He felt fatigued and attributed it to the long days of telepathic communication, to which he was not accustomed. Rather than attempt his nightly meditations, Spock sat on the foot of his bed and massaged his temples, trying to dispel the headache that seemed impervious to his usual biofeedback controls. He soon gave up the attempt and crawled into his bunk, reasoning that a solid night’s sleep would be of more benefit at this point than further mental exertions.

 

* * * * *

 

The inspection of Janus VI began as soon as they made orbit the next day. The colony was newly established and had only begun regular mining operations that month. Beyond verifying the functioning parameters of the equipment and life support systems, and checking the stability of the compound itself, there was little for the Enterprise to do. Spock’s presence was required on the bridge coordinating inspection and engineering teams, and as such, he was not afforded ample time to recover from the overexposure to telepathic contact with The Children. He was aware of the abruptness of his manner, and also of the fact that the junior officers seemed to be avoiding him whenever possible, but he was unable to help this. His headache had failed to abate, and though he had consumed his usual meal upon waking, it sat ill in his stomach.

 

He probably should have gone to sickbay to report his symptoms to the doctor, but the Captain insisted on Spock’s presence on the surface for a dinner reception at the conclusion of beta shift. His physical condition was not so serious that it merited immediate attention, though he second-guessed his conclusion when the tingle of the transporter beam releasing him onto Janus VI left him momentarily disoriented and dizzy enough that he immediately excused himself to the head so that he could sit down until it passed. He resolved to report to sick bay in the morning before commencing his duty shift, and in the mean time, avoided the food table set up at the informal reception. Thankfully, Kirk did not notice, or if he did, he assumed that Spock had already eaten.

 

Spock awoke groggy the next morning, and unnaturally; his door chime sounded again before he had even managed to pry his eyes open all the way. He fumbled for his innate time sense but it eluded him, and when he attempted to roll onto his side so that he could rise to answer the door, his stomach clenched into an unanticipated, roiling wave of nausea. The door chime sounded a third time, but he was too busy panting to pay it much heed other than to wonder if a programmed sound byte could be described as having an emotional component, because he was struck by the fanciful urge to describe the chime as increasingly impatient.

 

Finally, a dull pounding betrayed the striking of a fist against the bulkhead, and Spock started at the realization that he had been slipping back into unconsciousness. He could hear Jim calling his name, and it occurred to him in a sluggish fashion that his current condition should alarm him. He could hear the deafening roar of silence in his head like waves in a vacuum, a great void of nothing threaded throughout the gaps in his own consciousness. 

 

The swish of the door opening betrayed the use of an override code, and Spock pried his eyelids apart as if they were gummed in a tacky residue. Jim swam into his field of vision and Spock lunged to feel something solid in his hands, though in actuality his movements could barely be described as a flop and a feeble grasping. The vertigo lessened for a moment once he had his fingers tangled in the hem of Jim’s uniform tunic, but the nausea and the burning in his abdomen only got worse. He heard himself trying to warn Jim that he was going to be violently ill, but Jim merely punched the intercom and called for a medical team before sitting down and cupping his hand over the crown of Spock’s head. Spock pressed his face into the crease between the bedding and Jim’s thigh, shivering and swallowing and hiccupping and hoping that the pressure building behind his eyes and in his head would just explode and get it all over with. He couldn’t do this. It was too much, it hurt too much.

 

“…med team is on its way. Just be sick if you have to – it’s alright. I’m not leaving.” Hands touched his face, and with it came _brightworryfriend_.

 

Spock scrabbled to hang on to the fleeting impression of feeling, of _otherness_ and _not-alone_ that came from the touch of another’s mind, however brief, but Jim retracted his hand and gripped Spock’s shoulder instead, a warmth through the fabric of his sleep clothes but dull for the lack of a mind behind it. It felt as though the deck were tipping back and forth like a board on a fulcrum. Spock had seen such a thing on Earth. Human children played on them. He could not imagine why they would wish to – the lurching sensation was not pleasant. Was that, perhaps, why the children shrieked when their parents put them on the contraption?

 

“That’s a see-saw, Spock.” Jim’s hand was in his hair now. When had he moved it? It was strangely soothing. “They yell because it’s fun.”

 

Not fun. Disturbing. Jim must be mistaken.

 

“Did those aliens do something to you? Spock, I can hear everything you’re thinking.”

 

Mother put him on a swing once. She had taken him to Earth to visit her family there. They had shunned her, and she had taken him to a park because he was old enough to understand what they said and she did not want him to hear them say the half-breed words. He heard them anyway because everyone always forgot that his ears were Vulcan, and even in whispers, they couldn’t speak quietly enough.

 

_God, he was just a child, how could they –_ “Spock, the med team’s here. I have to get out of their way.”

 

No. Nononono –

 

“Bones, his mind’s gone all weird – I can hear him.”

 

Spock grabbed for Jim’s retreating form, blurry at the edges of his vision but gold and warm enough to know him by.

 

“It’s alright, Jim, just let us have him.”

 

“I’m trying! Spock, you have to let go. Come on, buddy.”

 

Going to be sick, he’s going to be sick, and Jim is leaving, and he cannot breathe properly and it’s too hot, he likes the heat, but it’s too hot, and he’s shivering from the cold, and Mother insists he will like the swing but he doesn’t and he wants to go home, he wants to go _home_ , he’s never been away from Vulcan before, it’s cold and wet and at least when the other Vulcans don’t like him, they keep it to themselves and stay away from him –

 

“Dammit, Bones, just give him a hypo or something!”

 

“Spock, hold still!”

 

“Shit – ”

 

He felt the gastric acid burning a path up his esophagus and then he was choking, and Jim was a blur of yellow gold receding from him, and everything went black.

 

* * * * *

 

“Just breathe, Spock. Don’t try to sit up yet.”

 

Spock blinked, eyes slit against the harsh light of sickbay, and ignored how McCoy’s hand pressed against his chest to reinforce his order. Everything felt strange. Muted. He did not like it.

 

“You’re probably feeling a bit disoriented,” McCoy went on, his voice hushed and yet grating somehow in the wrongness of it. “I gave you a psi-blocker, so that’s normal. Your neural activity was off the charts when we found you. Now, just stay put for a minute while I get some readings.”

 

The moment McCoy removed his hand, Spock shoved himself into a seated position and blinked at the dull quality of the room. “This room has gone flat,” he announced, though the logic of saying so escaped him. Surely, McCoy was already aware of this malfunction.

 

A loud breath drew Spock’s attention to his left, where McCoy stood scowling at him. “Will you lay down, you ornery hobgoblin? I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with you here. For a while there, I was sure you were gonna start seizing.”

 

Spock tipped his head to one side, cognizant that the manner in which he stared was considered rude in human culture, and yet unable to look away from the spectacle of Doctor McCoy washed free of color. In fact, he was so…so dimensionless. Certainly this could not be the real McCoy. The real McCoy was full of colors and textures and substance. This being – this entire place, in fact – lacked even the most basic substance. It was an illusion. An alien presence must have been at work. Perhaps they were not cognizant of the imperfections in their recreated sickbay and were unaware that Spock could see through the deception. “Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

 

Pseudo-McCoy looked up sharply from its medical scanner readout and furrowed its brow. “What do you mean, who am I?”

 

“You have taken on the appearance of Doctor McCoy of the Enterprise, but clearly, you are not he.” Spock cast a more critical eye around the med bay and noted that aside from the flat and colorless aspect of the room, it was a very detailed and accurate facsimile of the Enterprise’s medical facility. “Where have you taken me? What are your intentions?”

 

“You…” Pseudo-McCoy’s hands dropped, the Feinberger in one hand and a hypospray in the other. It squinted a bit at Spock, glanced aside, and then made deliberate eye contact. “Spock, we’re on the Enterprise.”

 

“No.” Spock studied the being before him, and in spite of himself, he found the craftsmanship of this illusion to be superb. The being had even assimilated McCoy’s body language and unspoken mannerisms. How long must they have had the Enterprise under surveillance to be able to manage such a detailed recreation? “My shipmates are no doubt searching for me. You would do well to return me to them unharmed.”

 

One of pseudo-McCoy’s eyebrows twitched. “Fascinating.” The other eyebrow ticked as well. “To coin a phrase. I know that Vulcans can experience a range of debilitating side effects when cut off from their telepathy, but I never expected Capgras Syndrome.” It took a cautious step closer to the biobed. “You really think that I’m not Leonard McCoy?”

 

Spock tensed as pseudo-McCoy drew closer, aware of the hypospray that the imposter still held in one hand. It could contain any number of chemical agents from a sedative to a truth serum. In his current physical and mental state, Spock doubted his ability to resist the effects of the latter. “I _know_ that you are not. Drop this farce immediately and state your intentions.”

 

“Alright, just calm down.” Pseudo-McCoy backed away again, its hands held up in the air in the human gesture of harmless intent. “I’m just going to call the captain down here, okay?”

 

“As you wish.” In spite of the imposter’s seemingly passive behavior, Spock refused to let his guard down. It still had not revealed the purpose of kidnapping him like this, but perhaps that was something that the ‘captain’ would have to explain. Upon hearing pseudo-McCoy contact ‘Jim’ at the comm unit, Spock bristled. It appeared that these beings, whoever they were, intended to press this charade even though Spock had already seen through the deception. The intimation that Spock was simple minded enough to be persuaded by yet another facsimile, this time of his friend and captain, rankled. He blamed his emotionalism on a side effect of whatever agent must have served to bring him to this place.

 

After pseudo-McCoy closed the communications channel, it once again approached Spock, though it remained well outside of arm’s reach this time. “I’m just going to go out into the corridor to explain the situation to the captain before he comes in, alright?”

 

Spock narrowed his eyes, aware that his expression conveyed a particular brand of distaste for these proceedings. “Do as you must. But I warn you that the Federation does not take kindly to the unwarranted kidnapping of its officers.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” pseudo-McCoy replied, and its tone was far too wry and patronizing for Spock’s liking. It sobered quickly, however. “Promise me you won’t try to leave this room. It’s…well, it’s for your own safety. The others might not understand this, um…unique situation.”

 

Spock afforded the request a moment’s thought, then nodded. It could be considered a reasonable request under the circumstances, and while the presence of the being before him implied a certain level of dishonesty, it had not attempted violence against him. He was not being restrained, and the being appeared non-hostile, even caring. Spock decided to reserve judgment. It was possible that there was a logical explanation for his being here. Perhaps these beings did not exist on a corporeal plane, and this flat place represented an attempt at communicating with him in the only manner of which they were capable. Perhaps they assumed the likenesses of his shipmates because they had no other reference from which to draw a physical form. “I will remain here until you return.”

 

“Good,” pseudo-McCoy breathed. It sounded relieved. “Thank you.”

 

Spock nodded, just a slight dip of his head, but he felt a rising sense of unease. This was not McCoy. This was _not_ the Enterprise. And yet… Aside from the flatness and the lack of texture, everything seemed too perfectly placed and acted out, too _right_ to be a forgery, all the way down to the hum of the engines that he could feel thrumming through the metal beneath his fingertips. But it _had_ to be a forgery. There was substance to some things, but not the _right_ substance, and not in the right places. How could an alien race create such accurate replicas of sounds and scents – intangible things – and yet fail to suitably mimic _sight_? It was not logical.

 

From outside the room came the sound of an air-pressurized door swishing open, and then closed again. Spock watched the pseudo-McCoy retreat into the corridor, and then a low hum of voices reached his ears, indistinct and, for lack of a better word, fuzzy. It disoriented him further and on reflex, Spock reached to ground himself, _reached_ in the telepathic sense to anchor himself within the shapes cast even by the psi-null minds of his shipmates. He should have been able to sense them, no matter any distance that may have separated them. Perhaps the impression would be imprecise, faint, below the threshold of conscious recognition, but at least the sense of their existence should have been there.

 

It was not. Spock reached, and felt nothing.

 

The biobed monitor behind him bleeped at the change in his rate of respiration, and then again as it registered the rise in his heart rate. The imitation doctor had mentioned a psi-blocker, but why would it have given him one? What purpose could have been served by cutting him off from awareness of his shipmates unless there were something that it did not want Spock to know? What if he had not been given a psi-blocker, but some other drug? Or perhaps he had not been given anything at all, and the reason for Spock’s failure to sense his shipmates was not due to illness or the strangeness of the space they now occupied, but to the fact that they no longer existed to be sensed. It was not a logical conclusion. Spock had absolutely no evidence to back it up, and yet he knew – he _knew_ , he could feel it in the abrupt emptiness of his mind – that they must be dead. All of them. They were dead like Vulcan-that-was. Their consciousness had ceased.

 

A recollection came to him unbidden of a past mission undertaken with then-Captain Pike, and of the illusions that the inhabitants of Talos IV could conjure at will, so detailed and yet flawed, the lack of dimension obvious in hindsight. Like this place. Like this flat, colorless place with no depth, like these beings that aspired so well to mimic the substance that they could never have.

 

Spock looked up when pseudo-McCoy reappeared in the doorway, its features creased as the real Doctor’s would have been to see the aberrations in the readout above the biobed. Another figure appeared behind it, and Spock’s stomach performed an unpleasant lurch at the resemblance to his captain. “Hey, Spock.”

 

Why did it have to look like Jim? Why did it have to speak to him in Jim’s voice, and look at him with Jim’s eyes and smile at him with Jim’s face? Why him – why choose Spock’s friend’s image to confront him with? Why –

 

“Whoa, there.” Pseudo-McCoy put a hand on fake-Jim’s arm to stop him coming any closer, and Spock flared his nostrils at the way this – this _imposter_ Jim’s face fell into tense lines. Just like _his_ Jim’s face would have done when encountering an unexpected threat.

 

Fake-Jim took what appeared to be an involuntary step backwards and Spock felt the hairs raise on his arms and the back of his neck. He could hear himself growling, a threatening, animal sound deep in his chest. “What have you done with them?” he demanded, and he might have been horrified at the snarl to his words if he had not been so disoriented, so – so _furious_.

 

This imitation Kirk recovered its bravado and straightened, and the affectation was so like Jim’s that Spock bristled at the pain of knowing that this echo was probably all that was left of his own captain. “What do you mean?” fake-Kirk asked. “With who?”

 

“The crew of the Enterprise,” Spock replied, his voice clipped and savage as a Vulcan’s should not be. “Do you intend to kill me as well?”

 

“Kill - what? Spock, no! No one’s dead. Look.” Fake-Kirk held its hands out in a gesture of supplication and Spock recoiled with his teeth bared. At any other time, he would have been appalled at his behavior, but surely this cause was sufficient. “Spock, listen to me. I know you’re frightened right now. I know…I know where you are. It’s like the deck’s shaking, and it takes you to that place when it’s all…it’s all falling apart around you, and you don’t want to be there. Like the famine. I _know_ that feeling, Spock, remember? I know exactly where you are right now, and I am asking you – I’m _telling_ you – to trust me. You can’t recognize me because your telepathy isn’t working right now, but it’s me, Spock. It’s Jim.”

 

Spock felt himself trembling. He felt the solidity of the wall at his back and the harsh quality of the air grating his windpipe as he breathed too quickly, his respirations shallow. He could not recall getting to his feet, but he had done so, and had also moved to put the biobed between them as a barrier. There was panic stuck in his throat. It would suffocate him if he allowed it to. He would choke on the flatness and the no-colors and the wrong. The real Jim was vibrancy and textures and glows and warm thoughts, and he was Spock’s _friend_ , couldn’t they _see_ that? This creature, this – this _thing_ with his captain’s face was not real, it was not Jim, it could never be Jim because it _lacked_ _everything_.

 

The words, when they came, were more of a howl than a sentence – a lematya dying of thirst in the desert. “You are not Jim Kirk!” And he watched the facsimile’s face fall as if Spock’s words had wounded it.

 

“Spock – ”

 

“ _No_!”

 

“Listen to me! Spock, just – just breathe, okay? Look at this logically.”

 

“Tell me what you have done with them.” Spock felt recycled air whistling through his teeth as he bared them again. On the surface, he strove to present menace and strength. Inside, he felt like a Terran kitten arching its back to hiss at a pit bull.

 

“God. Spock, nothing. We’re all – _they_ are all fine, I swear.”

 

Spock’s nostrils flared as the scent of his friend reached him, and a prickling began to irritate the corners of his eyes. “Then stop looking like him! You have no right to look like him, he is not yours to look like – he is _mine_!”

 

In hindsight, it was probably fortunate for McCoy that Spock had failed to notice his surreptitious progress around the room, and the sedative had already entered his system by the time he registered the hiss and sting of a hypospray. He fought anyway, weakly and with too little coordination or forethought to be effective. The imposters subdued him with ease, his limbs intercepted before they could strike the floor and his head cradled carefully against a hard chest resonant with the slow, plodding beat of a human heart. More lies, this sound. Another illusion meant to trick him. Another cruel echo of what was irretrievably lost.

 

But then his nose caught a whiff of Jim, a scent long since imprinted in his mind, and though his telepathy remained hobbled, the smell of it glowed warm and golden like his friend. _Fake…it’s not him, they replicated it…how did they know? Where did they find the scent of him to bring here?_ Spock had not felt alone in so many months that to feel it now was… He had forgotten. Somehow, being a member of the Enterprise crew, he had forgotten that he was supposed to be alone. Just an experiment. Illogical to grow attached. He knew that. He was not supposed to be reliant on the presence of others; he was Vulcan, and Vulcan was gone, and his continued existence could not be explained by scientific means.

The fight drained out of him, chemical calm and words that aspired to be Jim’s voice, vibrating through the chest cavity of a body too insubstantial to be human. “You’ll be fine – it’s fine. It will be out of your system in a few hours, Spock; I promise.”

 

But it wasn’t fine. In his mind, Vulcan imploded, sucked into a pinprick in space, a billion lives gone, lost to a singularity, a quantum phenomenon that had no dimension, no space, no substance – just like this illusory ship and this fake friend. Consciousness excised, severed from the rest of the universe, not dead – no, it didn’t even take long enough for most of them to die before existence ceased. The physics of a black hole. Time frozen at the event horizon, everything beyond just… _not_ , anymore. Nothing. No death, just…the complete cessation of entropy. And all of the things that used to exist simply didn’t after that. Gone as if they never had been, but physics stated that inside, beyond the event horizon, they were frozen, stuck forever at the moment of death. And not even thoughts could escape. From the outside, there was nothing, not even…tearing, not…destruction, merely…merely absence.

 

“I might be able to reverse the effects. Flush it from his system faster.”

 

“Then do it! Dammit, Bones – you don’t understand what this is like for him. He thinks we’re all dead, and he’s alone here!”

 

Pseudo-McCoy’s reply faded as Spock’s consciousness quickly drowned under the onslaught of drugs in his system. At least when Vulcan ceased to be, the missing did not suffer the end of all that they had been. Perhaps he had never left them after all. No one knew what laid beyond the gravitational horizon of a black hole. He might still be there, and the Enterprise – his life on the ship – all a dream borne from the nothingness that abounds when all things, even time, cease. He would rather be dead than caught here in limbo forever. Was this why human lore called it purgatory? Why, Spock thought, was he forced to linger like this?

 

* * * * *

 

Spock woke feeling tired and nauseous two days later, his body rebelling against the excessive use of chemical medications in true Vulcan form. After he went through the extremely harrowing ordeal of dry heaving over the edge of the biobed, McCoy set about conducting a thorough physical. Spock could recognize his surroundings now that the psi-blocker was out of his system, and McCoy, though more somber than Spock was accustomed to seeing him, no longer appeared washed of color and bled dry of substance.

 

Spock’s memory of the last time he had woken was…disconcerting, and left him with the irrational urge to flee the sickbay. The mortification he felt at his previous behavior was not logical. He had been drugged and incapable of rational thinking. Reminding himself of this did not help. He gathered his awareness of the ship around himself like a thermal blanket and huddled on the biobed while McCoy conducted his scans, attempting to subdue his rebellious mind, to no avail. The memories of waking with his body hobbled by chemicals, the anguish of believing his shipmates dead and himself utterly alone, unsettled him too much, as did the understanding that he might have caused serious harm to Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy, had they not managed to subdue him. There had been no recognition whatsoever. Spock recalled looking at Jim and not knowing him, hearing Jim’s words and believing them to be a lie told by an imposter.

 

Spock could not concentrate, and even though he could once again sense companionship and life all around him, it did little to dispel the lingering horror at the thought that one day, its absence might not be an illusion. The feeling, the…the _emotion_ of believing them gone would not leave him. It was an illuminating experience, and an unforgettable one, to be given the knowledge of what it would be like to lose them all. To be left in isolation. To mourn them and know that nothing he could ever do would bring them back. The echo of Jim’s mannerisms in a body not his, the cruelty of seeing him and knowing – _knowing –_ that he was _not_ …

 

Spock understood, now, what it meant to be haunted by an experience. He thought of his mother and wondered why her death – which was _not_ the delusion of a drugged mind – did not haunt him thus. Or perhaps it did, and McCoy was right to question his emotional wellbeing. Since he could not rationalize the experience, he fought to put it from his mind altogether for the present, though not before it occurred to him to wonder if his own non-existence would feel as terrifying to his shipmates as it felt within himself when others ceased to exist.

 

“Spock. Are you listenin’ to me, Commander?”

 

Reality, the present moment, knifed through Spock’s thoughts. He tried to quell the way his body started, but all he accomplished was making it seem that he had flinched at McCoy’s words. “My apologies, Doctor. I was distracted.”

 

“I’ll say.” Doctor McCoy pulled a stool over and sat himself directly in the center of Spock’s field of vision. “I was just saying that I have a theory about what’s been going on with you.”

 

“Indeed?” Spock focused on the man before him, momentarily perturbed to find that his pupils seemed unable to hold the clarity of McCoy’s visual appearance. The drugs had not completely left his system, then, or else his body was still adjusting back to its standard parameters. Meditation and a reinforcement of his biofeedback mechanisms would assist the process. In the mean time, he paid exaggerated attention to McCoy’s voice so as to minimize the amount of information that may not make its way into his normally perfect recall. “Please continue.”

 

McCoy studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Well, it’s like this. Vulcans are considered touch telepaths, right?”

 

Spock nodded, though he was not certain that McCoy actually required a response. It was difficult for him to identify rhetorical questions.

 

“But if you want to get technical, there is no such thing as a _touch_ telepath, strictly speaking. Vulcans have distance telepathy too. It’s weak compared to most other telepathic or empathic species, but it’s there. The touch aspect of it is more of a misunderstanding of your evolutionary progression. The Vulcan nervous system has unusually high concentrations of nerve bundles and nerve endings in places like the fingertips, certain areas of your faces, your spinal cord…things like that. I’m willing to bet that the original reason for that had less to do with ‘touch’ telepathy and more to do with mating rites. All of those places I just mentioned are erogenous zones for Vulcans. It’s a nice coincidence that the concentration of nerve endings also allows for the enhanced transmission of thoughts when you touch each other at those points.”

 

“This is a common understanding,” Spock confirmed. “But I am uncertain as to why you have chosen to bring it up now.”

 

At any other time, such a remark from Spock would have served to raise McCoy’s ire; he disliked being told that his conclusions were obvious to others. Contrary to expectations, he merely said, “I’m gettin’ to that part. My point is that I bought into the popular understanding, and I’ve been treating you as if the distance telepathy doesn’t exist. Vulcans have a degree of collective consciousness. Or _had_ one. And it’s gone now; there aren’t enough of you left to sustain it over long distances. That’s why the Vulcan survivors are having such a hard time coping, and why they tend to gather so close together now. All except you.”

 

Spock started to reply, stopped himself when he realized that he intended to speak harshly and with a sudden onset of emotion, and then refrained from frowning. It took an inordinate amount of force to make his voice level enough to simply state, “Please elaborate.”

 

Somehow, McCoy seemed to know that he had nearly provoked Spock to violent words. He made a conciliatory gesture before explaining, “They’re all going through a form of withdrawal, which is natural. Vulcans are _supposed_ to have that background hum in their minds at all times - you've evolved into that, and living without it is like breathing with only one lung. But up until recently, you haven’t shown any signs of strain from it. When you first came in here with symptoms, I thought that you were just suffering psychological aftereffects – which you _are_ , as far as I’m concerned, and don’t look at me like that.”

 

Spock shut his mouth and blanked his face again.

 

“But it’s not just psychological. You weren’t showing signs because somehow, maybe because of the additional stress that you were under during the fight with the Narada, you managed to latch onto something else to fill that psychic void. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it’s been insulating you from the more serious effects of Vulcan’s destruction.”

 

The silence following that statement was likely meant to allow Spock time to process and follow McCoy’s logic. “You are referring to the crew of the Enterprise?”

 

“That’s it in a bushel basket,” McCoy confirmed. He seemed unaware that the colloquialism made it more difficult for Spock to understand his meaning. “Humans emit a low-level psionic field even though most of us are psi-null. The crew of this ship, however, was sort of…forged together, let’s say, by the shared trauma of the battle with the Narada. It’s common for humans to form intangible bonds - to permanently strengthen the shared psionic field - in those sorts of situations, and while it's not an exact paralell to the Vulcan shared consciousness, it's apparently close enough. You followed right along with us. That’s why your symptoms have been subtle to nonexistent, and it's also why you get worse when you leave the ship. It’s withdrawal, Spock. Whatever you get from being surrounded by your shipmates, it’s enough to fill that need for telepathic connection that all telepaths have. And the second you pass beyond range of it, you can feel its loss that much more keenly. The Children must have been like a binge for you, and when we moved beyond your telepathic range of the planet, you started to go through withdrawal almost immediately.”

 

Spock analyzed McCoy’s theory for a minute, and found his conclusions sound. The broader implications of it, however, were not encouraging. “Then I am in danger whenever I am parted from the ship?”

 

McCoy’s expression turned apologetic. “Right now, yes. To a point. Edian Delta gave off a very strong magnetic field; it likely interfered with your telepathy more than usual, which is why you were so badly affected there. But you’ve been fine on shore leaves and planetary expeditions up until now, so I can’t really say for sure.”

 

Spock nodded. “And your recommended treatment?”

 

At that, McCoy laced his fingers together and looked down. “I don’t have one yet. I’m not an expert on Vulcan telepathy; I wouldn’t know where to begin. But I’ve got some calls in, and I’m working on it. For now, we’ll have to play it by ear. If you go planet side, I’ll monitor your condition, and at the first sign of trouble, you return to the ship, no but’s about it."

 

Again, Spock nodded. "Logical," he agreed, though his actual thought was more along the lines of _inadequate_.

 

McCoy, of course, did not notice; he went on without pause. "Now, since we’re on the subject…I want to talk about Jim’s effect on you.”

 

Spock could feel his heart begin to kick into a higher gear and forced himself back to calm. “The captain?”

 

“Do you know any other Jims?” McCoy snapped. “Don’t play coy. I’m not the only one who’s noticed that you go all grabby-hands for him when you’re having an episode. You want to tell me about that?”

 

All of Spock’s shields slammed down without his conscious input. “Specify.”

 

“Don’t go getting’ all defensive on me, Spock. It’s just a question.”

 

“Are you accusing me of something?” Spock demanded.

 

“Should I be? Now relax, Commander. It’s a reasonable inquiry.”

 

“My relationship with the captain is purely professional. As the command team of the Enterprise, we are required to work closely together, and to have personal knowledge of each other in order to function most efficiently.”

 

McCoy sighed and shook his head, his gaze breaking away from Spock’s as he did so. "Consider this on the record, Commander, and tell me about your relationship with Jimwhen you're both off duty. Are you friends?"

 

Spock felt his cheek twitch and identified the tick as one spawned from annoyance. "I do not see how my personal life is any of your business, Doctor."

 

"Everything is my business, Spock - I'm the CMO on this ship. I can pry into your masturbatory habits if I want to."

 

Spock bristled. "That is neither pertinent nor appropriate. I can report you for sexual harrassment - "

 

"Go right ahead! Do you remember what you were yellin' while you were off of your head in here, Spock? Because I do! Now, I know what it sounded like from my end of that scene, so why don't you just answer the question. Are you Jim Kirk's friend?"

 

Spock made no reply, his face set in stone through no design of his own.

 

“There’s no harm in considering him a friend. He’d be flattered.”

 

“Are we finished, Doctor?”

 

Under his breath, McCoy grumbled, “Jesus, you’re ornery.” Aloud, he merely said, “This is not over, so you think about how to answer that question, you hear me? I’m releasing you to light duty starting with beta shift tomorrow. Continue wearing the biomonitor, and report any unusual symptoms immediately. Understood?”

 

“Yes, Doctor.”

 

With an incomprehensible mumble, McCoy slipped off of the stool and flapped his hand in Spock’s direction. “You’re dismissed. There’s a clean uniform in the head.”

 

Spock deliberately turned his back on the Doctor as he left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings are at the end in the notes; may be spoilery, so they're all the way down there in case you don't want to be spoilered.

Chapter 2

 

Spock found himself grateful for the captain’s forbearance in not seeking to discuss Spock’s…problem at the first possible opportunity. Spock knew that the captain had been informed as to his condition only because regulations required that McCoy immediately report any medical conditions amongst the crew that could affect the captain’s command decisions, such as landing party detail. This was regrettable yet necessary. It would have been easier for Spock to manage his affliction without an audience, as it were, but _Kaiidth_. His status as an officer mandated otherwise.

 

In an effort to further understand his condition, Spock set up a research schedule that he assumed would run parallel to McCoy’s medical research. Not much literature on bonds, bonding and the collective consciousness of Vulcan society survived his planet’s destruction as most of the material had been stored only in printed form in places like clan archives, and in the oral histories passed down through the matriarchal lines of the clans that maintained an unbroken genealogy from before the time of Surak. Once the practice of logic and restraint took hold, talk of the many different forms of bonding and psychic or telepathic communication gave way to consideration of only the mating bond and the parental bonds as healthy expressions of telepathic contact. All others were considered superfluous at best, and at worst, a method by which passions could be enflamed beyond the logic and learned safeguards of modern Vulcan society.

 

Spock also set himself a more rigorous meditation regimen, and incorporated more stringent techniques into his usual controls and shields. This would, he hoped, serve to lessen or eliminate altogether the “withdrawal” episodes. By necessity, this method also required Spock to severely limit his casual interactions with the captain in order to minimize Spock’s reliance on him. McCoy had made the point that Spock seemed to reach for Jim physically whenever the episodes assailed him; it reasoned, then, that there was a telepathic component both to Spock’s need and to the reassurance that Jim was able to offer. This crutch was not acceptable, and it impinged on the captain’s independence. Allowing it to go on was not an option, and could later cause significant harm to them both.

 

More and more often, Spock found himself replaying McCoy’s words in his head, weeks old now: _You do know there’s a difference between control and repression, right?_ When he finally decided to meditate on the question, the only answer he could find was another question: _What does McCoy think I am repressing?_ Spock spent days on the problem, and every time he reached that same conclusion, the same resultant question, his thoughts turned to Jim and the _warmfriend_ smell of him, followed by a recollection of the way his own mind felt whenever Jim accidentally touched it.

 

There must be something wrong with him. Not only had he telepathically latched onto the crew of a starship in violation of their mental liberty – a crime on Vulcan that even in modern times was considered unforgivable – but parts of him craved attachment to his friend in manners and depths – with degrees of _need_ – that Spock could not quantify, and that he evidently could not entirely control. McCoy may have been right in his theory of withdrawal at the loss of sustained telepathic contact – the hypothesis was sound enough – but Spock should not have found himself in this situation with Jim as a result of that. His actions were not natural. No other Vulcan had behaved thus in the wake of Nero, whether consciously or instinctively; their continued suffering was proof of that.

 

Spock considered that his mental and telepathic instability must have a root cause; he would not be in this conundrum otherwise. No other Vulcan had escaped the telepathic backlash or the longterm effects of their near extinction and isolation. Spock was like no other Vulcan; his genetic code consisted of 17% human DNA. Some mutation, some instability or contaminant, had led to his successful conception and in vitro growth where all other zygotes before and after him had died. No one had ever been able to identify that mutation; Spock was the only one of his kind. Scientifically, mathematically, his existence should not be possible. And yet here he sat. There had to be a reason for that. If he were normal, healthy – if were not an unrepeatable and therefore failed experiment – then he should, by rights, be either suffering or dead like all of the others who had escaped Vulcan.

 

There _was_ something wrong with him. Perhaps if he shared his findings with McCoy, their joint efforts would lead to a solution faster.

 

* * * * *

 

“Spock… I don’t even know where to start.”

 

Spock refrained from twitching an eyebrow at that, as McCoy’s haphazard approach to conversation was expected. “If you prefer, I will leave you to review the materials, and return after you have been given sufficient time to put your thoughts in the proper order.”

 

The frown that graced McCoy’s face actually caused Spock to lean away. To distract from that, he clasped his hands behind his back and transitioned into an at-ease military stance as if he had intended that all along. McCoy glanced again at the compuslate that Spock had handed him, and then narrowed his eyes at Spock. “Did you just imply that I need extra time to figure out where to start?”

 

“Is that not an accurate assessment? You just stated – ”

 

“I can’t tell if you’re being a smartass or not.” McCoy took to ignoring him while he scrolled once again through the data that Spock had compiled from the results of his research. In Spock’s experience, the speed at which he scanned the literature and summary was far beyond what the human mind was capable of absorbing visually. Perhaps McCoy was also an anomaly of some sort?

 

Spock took a step closer to McCoy’s desk. “I assure you, I am in earnest. I am aware that physiologically, the human brain processes information at a rate of – ”

 

“I am _not_ entertaining this notion,” McCoy interrupted, dumping the compuslate on top of a pile of several others as if it smelled objectionable. “Spock, sit down and listen to me.”

 

Spock gave in to the urge to look down his nose at McCoy’s obstinance, and remained standing.

 

McCoy gave it right back in kind. “Do I have to make it an order, Commander?”

 

“It is a perfectly viable interpretation of the given facts, coupled with my own knowledge of Vulcan telepathic bond forms and – ”

 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake! This is worse than the genetic code thing you were obsessed over.”

 

That did not dignify a response, so Spock continued his original argument. “I have compiled all available information on the nature of Vulcan telepathy and bonding behavior. My own situation proves that I am deviant in that regard.”

 

“I am not isolating you – ”

 

“To do otherwise could put the ship at risk.”

 

“ – and I refuse to label you a danger to this ship based on this bullshit explanation you’ve concocted! You aren’t doing anything harmful to anyone except yourself! Spock, you will sit down right now, or so help me, I will relieve you of duty for being ridiculous.”

 

Spock flared his nostrils. “That is not an acceptable reason for relieving a commanding officer of duty. If ridiculousness were a valid standard, then the captain would be able to retain his command for no more than seven minutes at a time.”

 

It was interesting to note how McCoy’s face crinkled and twitched the way it normally did when smiling, though his mouth maintained a firm, straight line. More gently this time, he enjoined, “Sit, please. And let me talk to you about this.”

 

Stubborn for no readily discernable reason, Spock crossed his arms over his chest and told him, “Everything I have to say on the subject is in my report.”

 

“What, this? You're calling it a report now?” McCoy picked up the discarded compuslate, wriggled it in the air, and then dropped it into the waste container beside his desk. “Maybe you should try using some science next time.”

 

Spock did not sigh as he looked away, but an undiscerning observer may have mistaken the change in his breathing pattern for an emotional exhalation. “You are mocking me.”

 

McCoy sat up suddenly, his habitual slouch sloughed off like a mere affectation, and jabbed his index finger in Spock's direction. “Spock, I’m not mocking you, you green…” He seemed to stumble over finding a suitable disparagement before sighing abruptly and dropping his hand in favor of cradling his head in his palms, elbows propped on the desk. He seemed defeated all of a sudden, but Spock could see no precipitating factor for it. Without lifting his face, McCoy said, “Spock, I am worried about you. Very, seriously worried about your state of mind, and this – this poppycock treatise of yours just proves it. Can we please just leave off the bickering and pretend that we know how to be professional in a room together?”

 

The moment of silence seemed oppressive, like a nothing-moment in space. Spock sat down and clasped his hands in his lap, then stared at them for good measure. Hesitantly, he offered, “I too dislike the animosity between us.”

 

“Oil and water, Jim says. I suppose he’s got a point.”

 

Spock eyed him and considered remaining silent, but he felt a pressing need to share his thought. “My mother said something similar of myself and my father. She also said that when mixed together and set over a flame, oil will prevent water from boiling over.”

 

One side of McCoy’s mouth quirked; it had the strange effect of making him seem softer. “Smart lady.”

 

“She was a teacher.” Spock looked down quickly in an effort to abort the flinch that he nearly gave at the thought. “It is only basic science. Oil is less dense than water, and has a higher boiling point. There is nothing profound in making a metaphor of a basic precept of physics.”

 

“Says who? We take all sorts of lessons from nature.”

 

 _Sarek_ , Spock wanted to reply _._ Instead, he recited,“With the proper application of logic in everyday life, there is no need for abstraction. Logic eliminates the need for symbolic understanding of a problem.”

 

McCoy’s face smoothed out. “Now, that doesn’t sound like you at all.” Without giving Spock time to retort, he continued, “You aren’t defective, Spock. The fact that you don’t react to telepathic or psionic stimuli like a typical Vulcan 100% of the time is not proof that something is _wrong_. You’re a hybrid. At the risk of sounding like I’m mocking you, it is _illogical_ to conclude that your body should fall within the normal test range of only one of your genetic parent species.”

 

“The majority of my genetic make-up is Vulcan, and of the two sets of chromosomes from which I am comprised, the human traits are recessive. I express 100% of the Vulcan genetic material with which I am endowed.”

 

“And what about the leftover chromosomes?”

 

Spock felt himself tick. “I beg your pardon?”

 

McCoy widened his eyes as if suppressing his initial, perhaps unprofessional response. “Humans have forty-six chromosomes – twenty-three from each parent. Vulcans only have thirty-eight. And you, my pointy-eared friend, have forty-two. Now, maybe it's true that you express all of the Vulcan traits out of the 19 sets that match up, but do you really think that those four extra human chromosomes have no affect on your biology?”

 

Spock blinked, and then chose to address only one portion of that since he had no coherent response to the rest. “I am not your friend.”

 

It took a moment, but McCoy’s face did eventually go blank. He said nothing for nearly a minute, staring Spock straight in the eye the whole time, and then he shook his head. His gaze came to rest on a shelving unit to the left of his desk. “I’ll go over your notes and return my written response by the end of alpha tomorrow. Dismissed.”

 

This was not the reaction that Spock had expected, nor was it the one he had sought after. “I merely state fact, Doctor. We are colleagues and crewmates. But I do not socialize with you in any context which could be classified as – ”

 

“Just get out, Spock.”

 

The words were so calmly delivered, so blunt and…tired?...that after staring at McCoy for several more seconds in bewilderment, Spock did as he was asked. He left.

 

* * * * *

 

McCoy’s promised rebuttal showed up in Spock’s message queue exactly on schedule, two hours into beta shift, just as Jim turned command over to him and left the bridge. The response was…impressive, to say the least. McCoy had taken each and every one of Spock’s premises and conclusions, and shredded them in the driest scientific terms possible. It was very Vulcan, actually; Spock could appreciate the artistry of it. Immediately after his shift ended, he began crafting a rebuttal.

 

Four days and four sets of counterarguments with McCoy later, Kirk stormed into the mess hall where Spock sat writing out chemical formulae in his latest response, grabbed the compuslate out from under his nose, scanned it for content, and then dumped it down the disposal chute. “This has got to stop. I don’t know _what_ you did to my Chief Medical Officer to start this pissing contest, but it’s gone too far. He’s scaring nurses.”

 

Annoyed, Spock folded his hands on the tabletop; he had been nearly finished with that. “I merely presented the doctor with a theory as to the cause of my affliction. It need not concern you, Captain.”

 

Kirk gave him the sort of look that made Spock feel as if the static charge in the air had increased. “So your medical condition explains why the two of you have gone all swords at sunset with the dueling thesis papers? Not buying it. And yes, it does concern me. Two of my officers are having some sort of passive-aggressive public shouting match via science, and everyone on board has noticed. Do you think that’s professional? Do you think that it sets a good example for your subordinates?”

 

Spock swallowed. Was that how others viewed this academic exercise? “No, sir.”

 

Kirk tipped his head and regarded Spock sidelong. “That sounded like a question, Commander. Are you uncertain?”

 

“No, sir.” Spock wished he could pinpoint the exact moment when Kirk had gone from rebel cadet with a command, to Captain James T. Kirk perfectly at ease with his authority. To be on the receiving end of his fully developed command presence was disconcerting. Spock knew full well that in spite of Vulcan control, he looked like ‘a deer in the headlights.’ He was also exceedingly thankful that the mess hall was otherwise empty at this hour.

 

Something in Spock’s affect must have clued Kirk in, because he took a deep, deliberate breath and then sat down. Without looking at Spock, Kirk said, “You didn’t realize this was a problem, did you.”

 

Spock left off watching Kirk and focused on his knuckles. “Doctor McCoy and I did have a misunderstanding? But I was not aware that it had continued. He replied to my theories.”

 

“That doesn’t mean that everything’s hunky-dory, Spock.”

 

Spock mouthed _hunky-dory_ to himself, and then shook his head at Kirk to indicate his non-comprehension.

 

Kirk jabbed a thumb into his forehead in exasperation and then explained, “It doesn’t mean that the misunderstanding is resolved.”

 

“But he engaged in academic discourse with me. His responses were clearly well-formed and intelligently written. Why would he do so if he were still angry at something that I previously said to him?”

 

“That’s what I meant by passive-aggressive,” Kirk told him, his voice dry.

 

Spock considered this, and then admitted, “I am not entirely certain that I understand how to apply that term in this context.”

 

Kirk visibly bit his lip. Rather than explain, he asked, “What was the original misunderstanding about?”

 

The tabletop was not as clean as it should have been; Spock made a mental note to speak with the chief steward about this. They were still alone in the mess hall. Spock wished that they could conduct this conversation in a more private location. Or better yet, not have it at all.

 

“Commander.”

 

Spock flinched. The reaction was unintended. “We argued about the scientific validity of my theories concerning Vulcan bond forms, in the course of which I reminded him that I was not his friend.”

 

Nothing came from the other side of the table for several seconds, and then, “Jesus, Spock. Why the hell would you say that?”

 

Spock slid his hands from the table and clasped them in his lap. He looked up. “Mockery does not suit an officer of his rank, especially while engaged with a patient in a medical setting. I corrected him.”

 

Kirk started to shake his head, aborted the motion, and then looked down. His eyebrows went up. “Why do you think that whatever he said was not genuine?”

 

“He is a doctor.”

 

Kirk’s eyes narrowed; it appeared as if something previously amiss were now making sense for him. “And?”

 

Spock forced himself to check his own response, as it was clearly lacking substance of some sort from Kirk’s point of view. “He is Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise, and as such, my primary care physician.”

 

“Okay.” Kirk waived his hands for silence and then framed them around the air between him. “I want to get this clear. Is it because he is _a_ doctor, or because he is _your_ doctor, that you think he’s lying about feelings of friendship for you?”

 

Spock’s initial reaction was to protest that no substantial difference existed between the two. But Kirk was not lacking in either intelligence or insight, and he had on many past occasions been able to see motives to Spock’s actions that Spock himself had not been aware of. He stared at Kirk, then away to the left, and then back. “I may have been irrational in my recent interactions with Doctor McCoy.”

 

Kirk nodded, his eyes soft the way they usually were when he looked at Spock. “There are degrees of friendship, you know. Humans use that word for all kinds of different relationships.”

 

“I am aware of that.” His research on that front was either inadequate or outdated. The speed at which human social conventions evolved had served to both fascinate and annoy him ever since his acceptance to the academy.

 

“Good. You’ll settle this with him, then?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Spock nodded as if his words required reinforcement. “I will attend to it immediately.” He started to rise, but Kirk had extended his hand, palm down, the moment that Spock scooted his chair back. “There is something else you wish to discuss?”

 

Kirk let his hand descend to the tabletop. “Yeah, but not as your captain. Do you have a minute?”

 

“Of course,” Spock assured him.

 

Kirk nodded, took a breath, and then asked, “Did I do something?”

 

Spock blinked. “Sir?”

 

“ _Jim_ , Spock. This is a ‘Jim” conversation.”

 

“Yes, Jim.”

 

Kirk’s eye twitched – an interesting facial tick – and then ignored what he evidently thought to be an unacceptable response from Spock. “It’s just that I haven’t seen you outside of ship’s operation for over three weeks, and it’s not like we’re too busy for down time right now. You don’t even come to the mess for breakfast anymore. I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

 

Spock swallowed and tried to determine how best to answer without lying to spare Jim’s feeling.

 

He must have taken too long to reply because Jim asked, “Did I do something to make you uncomfortable with me? If I did, you’re supposed to tell me so that I can make it right, or not do it anymore, or whatever. That’s, like, bro-code.”

 

Alarmed, Spock resolved to obtain the text of this code as soon as possible. He had not known that such a guide existed; it could have proven useful in the past.

 

Kirk’s mouth appeared to be fighting between exasperation and a smile. “There’s no actual written code, Spock. It’s just a saying. Relax.”

 

Spock squinted into the middle distance. “I see. Captain – ”

 

“ _Jim_.”

 

“Yes.” Spock hesitated. “Jim, I find… I am concerned… You do not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. I am not…stable…telepathically. I could do you serious harm.”

 

Kirk scoffed. “How, exactly? McCoy explained his theory that the Enterprise crew is acting like some kind of surrogate psionic field for you.  _And_ he told me, very loudly, why your conviction that you pose some sort of a danger to the rest of us is bullshit. So if that’s what you’re worried about – ”

 

“You do not understand. You are _warm_ , Jim. You, specifically. You smell of light when I am not paying attention.”

 

For a very long moment, Kirk did nothing but breathe. “And that’s bad?”

 

Spock fidgeted, noticed what he was doing, and stopped immediately. “Yes. I could become dependant on you. I could learn to rely on you to provide that.”

 

Unexpectedly, Kirk laughed.

 

Bristling, Spock snapped, “I am not making jest.”

 

“Spock – ” Kirk wrested himself back under control, but the mirth did not entirely fade. “Spock, that’s friendship. That’s what it _means_. You’re supposed to take comfort from the presence of your friends, especially if you’re hurt or suffering.”

 

Spock frowned. “I fail to see how this is normal. Nyota has been a friend for longer than I have known you, and she never enticed me thus.” From a scientific standpoint, he knew that this argument was weak; one data point could not be used to extrapolate a whole.

 

Kirk's resultant smile seemed a helpless thing, as if Spock were too irrestible to permit any other expression. “Okay, just for your information, you shouldn’t use words like ‘entice’ in this context.”

 

“But that is what you do to me,” Spock protested.

 

Kirk shook his head, but really, it was more like an uncoordinated head bobble. “Yeah, but to humans, that word has sexual overtones.”

 

“Ah.” Spock nodded, pensive. “I was not aware.”

 

“I thought not.” Kirk sighed. “Okay, look. I’ve been doing some research on Vulcan social behaviors, so I kind of think that I understand what you’re saying here.”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow but maintained his silence, though his abdominal cavity seemed to expand by a greater percentage than what the inhalation of air accounted for. Jim had been trying to understand his culture? Even Nyota, for all that she knew his language, had never attempted that. She had assumed that he should adapt to human behavior. Everyone Spock had met since coming to Earth, in fact, had expected that, with some very few exceptions.

 

Kirk seemed unaware of Spock’s suddenly racing thoughts. “I don’t really know how Vulcans get to this – I got the impression that there wasn’t, like, a verbal discussion or anything since you’re all telepaths, so – here it is. We went through hell together, and we blew up a really bad guy together, and now we’re commanding a starship together. I think that means that in Vulcan terms, we sort of have a connection anyway. And I’m cool with that. So, whatever you need from me, Spock, that’s fine. I’ll give it, okay? Humans believe the same damn thing, and you’re welcome to it.”

 

Surely Kirk did not understand what he had just said. “Under the circumstances, I require further clarification.”

 

Kirk shrugged; this evidently annoyed him. “I miss you, Spock. We’re friends. We’re supposed to trust each other not to get pissed off or laugh at each other for things we can’t control. And we’re _supposed_ to rely on each other. I read up on pre-reform Vulcan – it’s the only place where you guys discuss stuff like this. It’s like warrior brothers. We fought each other, and then we fought a common enemy and we saved each others’ lives, and then we worked together to save everybody else too. We’re a team, we rely on each other for support, and we trust each other. That’s what the Vulcan word for friendship is supposed to describe, right? When two guys are like that with each other?”

 

Spock tipped his head to the side. “Not…exactly, but the description will suit for the purposes of your explanation.”

 

“Okay, good,” Kirk exhorted. “So… are we good? You’ll stop acting like you’re a pariah or something?”

 

Spock nodded, his bottom lip caught in his teeth. His abdomen still hurt, midway down his right side, like it was too full of organs.

 

“Thank god.” Kirk got to his feet, hesitated, and then gave Spock an awkward pat on the shoulder.

 

Spock craned his neck to look up at Jim.

 

“We’re not judging you for what you’re going through, you know. You’re too hard on yourself.”

 

No suitable counterpoint came to mind, or at least not one that Jim would agree with. A Vulcan should rely on logic, not on an emotional attachment to a friend. Saying that would only serve to aggravate Jim, though, so Spock said, “I will dine in the officer’s mess tomorrow morning.”

 

A slow smile appeared on Kirk’s face. “Then I’ll see you there. Mission briefing at 0930, don’t forget.”

 

Spock sniffed. “I do not forget, Captain.”

 

The smile became an outright grin, and Spock only noticed that Kirk’s hand was still on his shoulder because he chose that moment to finally remove it. “Sleep tight, Commander.”

 

As Kirk walked from the mess hall, Spock murmured, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” under his breath where Kirk would not hear it.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock anticipated finding McCoy in his office prior to alpha shift as the doctor routinely reviewed the gamma shift reports before breaking fast with the other officers. He nodded to the passing medical personnel as he made his way toward the back corner of sickbay. In instances such as this, Spock had noticed that humans would peek around the open door jamb or rap their knuckles against the bulkhead to announce themselves. Spock chose the latter route and then waited while McCoy finished whatever he was doing before looking at Spock.

 

“So,” McCoy drawled, leaning back in his chair. “My scientific method finally warrants an in-person response?”

 

“No, Doctor.” Spock straightened up and trained his eyes on the wall over McCoy’s head. “I came to apologize.”

 

McCoy snorted. “I thought apologies were illogical.”

 

Spock considered retorting in kind, but that would be both juvenile and counter to his current purpose. “As you once pointed out, I know exactly what remorse feels like.” He swallowed and made himself look at McCoy. “I had not realized that my behavior toward you was emotional in nature. I apologize for giving offense.”

 

McCoy studied him for a moment, and then sighed as he indicated the chair on Spock’s side of the desk. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry too. I reacted unprofessionally, took your words personally when I shoulda been lookin’ at this like a doctor. You just piss me off so much sometimes that I can't help it.”

 

Though doubtful as to the sincerity of McCoy’s remorse, especially considering that last bit, Spock stated, “Your apology is also accepted.” He sat down and blinked a few times at McCoy. “And you were partially correct about the…anxiety.” The word left a bitter taste in his mouth, but Spock did not seek to reduce its import. “I do not trust healers, and I believe that I may have transferred this aversion to my interactions with you.”

 

“What, you mean like Vulcan Healers?” McCoy thankfully did not seek to embarrass him by addressing the statement before that.

 

Spock nodded.

 

Unnecessarily, McCoy pointed out, “I’m not a Vulcan Healer, Spock.”

 

“Agreed. But you are the human counterpart.”

 

McCoy grimaced, but the expression did not last long. “I can understand that, I think. Healers and Vulcan geneticists – they’ve probably treated you like a lab rat all your life. It’s natural that you’d come to dislike them.”

 

Spock shook his head. “Though that is an accurate assessment, that is not what I meant. I was emotional as a child. The aberrations in my behavior had to be corrected on numerous occasions.”

 

For some reason, McCoy paled at that. It was a fascinating thing to watch. “When you say _corrected_ , Spock…you mean Mind Healers, specifically?”

 

“Adepts in the arts, yes. Kholinaru. My father’s clan counts…counted many skilled Healers among its ranks. As my behavior was frequently erratic, and as living in a house with a human complicated my training and often compromised my control as a Vulcan – ”

 

“Stop right there,” McCoy interrupted, his hands held up as if to ward off any further speech. “Spock, are you sayin’ that every time your human side acted up, some voodoo Vulcan stuck his fingers in your head and – what, started rearranging things in there?”

 

Spock took up a more dignified posture where he sat. “It was necessary for my controls to be reinforced on multiple occasions, as I was unable to maintain them on my own. This is normal for a young Vulcan whose emotional expression proves troublesome.”

 

“So _normal_ ,” McCoy all but growled, “apparently, that you have difficulty trusting anybody who even reminds you of a Vulcan Mind Healer?”

 

It irritated Spock that McCoy always seemed to feel a need to spell emotionalisms out with an exactitude normally reserved for mathematics. “The experiences were…disquieting.”

 

“In what way?” McCoy asked.

 

Spock eyed the openness on his face. “I believe that this is what the captain refers to as your armchair expression.”

 

McCoy almost smiled at that; it was a near miss, to go by the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Nobody likes me when I use my psychology degree. It’s enough to give a man a complex.” He sobered quickly after that. “Why were the experiences disquieting? Did you resist the Healers?”

 

Spock looked down. Curiously enough, he found that when he tried to swallow, he could not. “On most occasions, I did not believe their intervention to be necessary.” When McCoy said nothing to that, Spock added, “I did not instigate the encounters with my agemates, and yet the full-blooded Vulcans involved were not subjected to correction as I was. They suffered no consequences at all for their conduct. Their behavior was never expected to change, regardless of the fact that it was just as emotional as my own.”

 

“I never did like bullies.” The rustle of items on the desk drew Spock’s attention; McCoy had pulled out a datapad and made a few brief notations as Spock watched. Once he finished, he looked up. “What were these sessions like – the corrections. Can you describe what they did?”

 

“They reinforced my shielding and my emotional controls.”

 

“Yes, but how?” McCoy pressed.

 

“They…blocked the emotions that instigated my outbursts, and imposed acceptable behavioral patterns over those volatile ones which I had formed naturally.”

 

It appeared as if McCoy wanted to say undiplomatic things in response to that, judging by the way he clenched his jaw long enough to stab his stylus at the datapad. “Why not just teach you to control the emotions like other Vulcans?”

 

Spock had to remind himself to blink; humans often found it disquieting when Vulcans did not. “I was…difficult. I would not accept blame for my transgressions.”

 

McCoy looked down again and made a face backed by an emotion that Spock could not identify. “Okay. Here’s what I’m getting from this. You got into altercations with other Vulcans when you were a child. They were never punished, but you were, so the altercations continued. Spock, I’m gonna ask this, and I want you to just answer yes or no, alright?”

 

Suspicious, Spock nonetheless replied, “Yes, Doctor.”

 

“The Healers…when you resisted them…did they withdraw, or did they force their way in?”

 

Spock swallowed. “Their task was to – ”

 

“Yes or no, Spock. Did they force themselves on you?”

 

“My father instructed them to assist me in building suitable shielding and controls since I was not able to do so on my own. I was a minor child and subject to his will, as were they in relation to me.”

 

McCoy merely looked him and repeated, “Did they withdraw when you resisted them?”

 

Spock blinked, tried to swallow again, sniffed, and felt his cheek twitch. “No.” The room smelled of antiseptic and the old creamed coffee congealing in the cup beside McCoy’s elbow.

 

“How long did this go on?”

 

“It is perfectly normal in Vulcan society for a difficult child to be corrected by his elders in such a fashion,” Spock informed him. As McCoy appeared to be ignoring that, Spock said, “I was five the first time. I broke the nose of another child in my age group. Intervention was necessary to curb my violent tendencies. You would no doubt agree, as you have been witness to my loss of control on more than one occasion. As I grew older, I naturally came to understand the importance of logic and no longer resisted the Healers’ assistance in teaching me to properly apply and follow the mind rules.”

 

Strange; McCoy appeared to be exerting considerable effort to maintain his blank, calm expression. “What did your mother think of all this?”

 

“Her input was not appropriate in such matters.” Since this failed to erase the peculiar look on McCoy’s face, Spock elaborated. “Such a developmental progression is typical of Vulcan children. The young are unable to comprehend the importance of Surak’s teachings, and the reasons for following them. They also have neither the maturity nor the telepathic capacity for control that adults have; it must be imposed on them from a young age, until such time as they are capable of the discipline necessary to manage themselves.”

 

“Was _any_ consideration given to your human traits?”

 

“As my genetic expression is Vulcan, I was raised as a Vulcan.”

 

“And yet your cerebral configuration deviates from the Vulcan norm. It probably has something to do with those extra human chromosomes we talked about before. I’d call that a flaw in this genetic expression theory. Did anybody ever account for that?”

 

Spock frowned. “It is true that I am a much stronger telepath than is typical of my race, but my abilities still fall within accepted parameters.”

 

“I meant physically, Spock – your brain is not like other Vulcans’.”

 

“…affirmative. But it bears far more resemblance to the Vulcan configuration than the human.”

 

“That’s a no, then,” McCoy divined. “Nobody accounted for it when they went mucking about in your head.”

 

“The differences are minor enough as to make it unlikely that this would have any effect on me, either for good or for ill. A difference that makes no difference is no difference.”

 

McCoy shook his head. “It’s butterflies and chaos theory, Spock. You can’t say for sure that there’s no effect; you don’t know.”

 

“Neither do you,” Spock returned. He regretted it immediately, as it merely served to illustrate his emotional state, and was not constructive in the least.

 

“That’s true,” McCoy allowed, and then his affect changed altogether. “Look, it’s about that time; Jim’s probably waiting for us in the mess by now.” He paused to eye Spock across the desk. “You _are_ joining us, right? No more hiding out to stop yourself from feelin’ the warm-fuzzies?”

 

Spock straightened primly, thrown off guard by this sudden change in atmosphere and subject matter. “The captain informed you of our discussion last night?”

 

“Only the basics. We weren’t the only people who noticed you actin’ strange, Commander. Jim just let me know that he worked things out with you.”

 

Spock deflated, which only meant that his muscles lost the excess tension not necessary for the maintenance of his posture. “I see. I was not aware that others had noticed my aberrant behavior.”

 

“I didn’t say it was aberrant, Spock; I said you were actin’ strange. This is a starship. Everybody notices when the First Officer is not alright.”

 

“I will keep this in mind,” Spock assured him. “And yes, I promised Jim that I would be present at breakfast in the officer’s mess today.”

 

“Good.” McCoy swept his datapads into an untidy pile next to his monitor, and stood up. “You’re still seven kilos under your ideal weight; three more, and I start monitoring your meal card, Commander; I expect to see you every morning for breakfast from now on, and so does Jim.”

 

This should have irritated Spock, being ordered about as if he were incapable of seeing to his own basic needs. Instead, he felt warmer for it. Jim had been correct: McCoy _was_ a friend, it just wasn’t as obvious or in the same form as it was with Jim. “Understood, Doctor. I will endeavor not to disappoint either one of you.”

 

McCoy glanced at him, did a double take, and then scowled. “Don’t ever get twinkly-eyed at me again. It’s creepy.”

 

Spock immediately shut down the unintended facial expression, but he could not understand why McCoy flinched as soon as he noticed.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock typically sparred with the captain once a week, as duty and mission requirements allowed. It assisted both of them in maintaining peak combat efficiency, as well as providing Kirk with the opportunity to hone skills for use against beings of superior strength and speed. Spock, in turn, learned to anticipate the more eclectic style of an opponent who did not fight logically. Overall, he deemed them to be almost equally matched in spite of Spock’s higher muscle density, and therefore the sessions were mutually beneficial.

 

It seemed that the captain’s motives in engaging Spock in these sessions were built on other justifications, however. In part, Spock suspected that Kirk insisted on the sessions in order to keep Spock from spending what he considered to be too much time alone in his quarters. This concern for his wellbeing was touching, if misplaced. Spock did not require looking after, but as Kirk did not make his motivations obvious, Spock had no grounds for objection. Kirk routinely referred to their matches as ‘team building exercises,’ and told Spock that not every first officer was afforded an opportunity to regularly ‘kick his superior’s ass.’ To Spock’s recollection, he had never struck the captain’s posterior with his foot, but he refrained from saying so since Kirk seemed to know this as well.

 

Spock had eventually recognized this as a joke, but not until after he had consulted the Enterprise’s etymological databanks for the slang usage of that phrase. Federation Standard English was very different from colloquial Terran English. Apparently, his exposure to his mother’s language in the course of his upbringing had not fully instilled in him the proper use of colorful metaphor in day-to-day interactions with humans. Spock remedied this deficiency in his knowledge immediately, and found that Kirk became amused at Spock’s continued (feigned) ignorance of these fanciful phrases.

 

It was not logical for Spock to continue acting as if he were unaware of the meaning of Kirk’s speech, and yet he did so because his captain enjoyed catching him unaware. Spock’s duty as first officer was, among other things, to help safeguard the captain’s physical and mental health. Humor served the latter purpose among humans by decreasing stress. Therefore, Spock saw no compelling reason to cease his actions in this regard. He was, after all, living among humans; in some things, he must by necessity adapt to their ways.

 

On a positive note, Spock had not experienced an episode in three months, not since The Incident with the psi-blocker. McCoy had been diligent in monitoring his condition, and only once so far had Spock been unable to complete an away team mission. He had been disappointed by that event, as he had been in command of the survey team and the captain had been forced to reassign it to Sulu, but Jim had distracted him with a math challenge chess marathon where each player had to complete a mathematical proof in under three minutes in order to be allowed to make his move on the board. Jim was surprisingly good at it; Spock had not managed to win the game until after Sulu and his team returned from the planet.

 

In any case, it was during one of their routine sparring sessions that Spock began to notice his heart rate accelerating beyond that which was justified by his physical exertion. Since commencing this exercise, Spock had been consistent and reserved in his defense as Kirk made every attempt to pin him, so it took him by surprise to realize that he was short of breath and sweating. Usually, due to a combination of the cool temperature at which the gym environmental controls were set and Spock’s natural desert-bred reticence to loss of moisture through the pores of his skin, his exertion levels during a sparring session were not sufficient to cause these reactions.

 

Kirk danced back and bounced on the balls of his feet, out of Spock’s reach on the edge of the mat. “What’s the matter, Spock? Wearing you out?”

 

“Hardly,” Spock replied, and yet he felt…shaky. Overexerted. He sidestepped and then dropped into a defensive stance. “And your attempt to distract me has not succeeded.”

 

Kirk grinned and circled him, balancing playfully on the line that marked the boundary of their playing field. He bit his bottom lip and tilted his head as if appraising something that he wished to purchase. “Hm…”

 

Spock flushed; he could feel the heat bloom across his cheeks and down his neck, spreading beneath the black t-shirt he wore to all matches with Kirk. It distracted him long enough for Kirk to notice, and he was therefore unprepared for the body that slammed into him, shoulder bearing him down to the mat in a rush of kinetic energy.

 

Kirk sat on his stomach, pinning him back by the shoulders, and crowed, “Ha!”

 

A single drop of human sweat hung precariously at the end of Kirk’s nose, and Spock fixated on it, his hands open and lax, palms up on the mat. He wasn’t sure if he truly could not breathe properly, or if it only felt like he couldn’t because his heart was fluttering so erratically within his ribcage. Against the inside of Kirk’s thigh. He felt…suffocated, suddenly, by the negligible weight of his commanding officer.

 

Kirk’s jubilation faded when Spock failed to react as expected. “Hey. Are you okay? I took you down pretty hard.”

 

Spock twitched at the sound of Kirk’s voice, but otherwise remained still. “I believe I am merely winded.”

 

Kirk raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, okay; I’ll buy that.” He slipped off to one side and swung his leg away, twisting about to sit cross-legged beside Spock instead of on him. “Sorry.”

 

Spock’s fingers curled in toward his palms and he felt his eyes closing of their own accord. He felt strange. Heavy. And…still too hot.

 

“Spock?” Kirk shifted on the mat beside him, and Spock felt rather than saw him lean over him. “Seriously…you’re looking a little greener than usual. And I mean that literally. You never flush like that.”

 

“I am uninjured, Captain.” Except he wasn’t, really. He was getting more light-headed by the second, and that strange, not-quite-sick burning had taken up residence in his abdomen. Kirk’s limbs scrabbled against the floor as Spock swallowed, eyes still shut against…he had no idea what. The warm skin of Kirk’s fingers came to rest against the inside of Spock’s elbow – insatiable human need for tactile reassurance. Something unnamable within Spock’s body surged in shock to be touched so, and he stiffened to contain it. Kirk touched him often, but usually through the protective insulation of clothing. This touch was bare skin; Spock had not been prepared for it. It overwhelmed his other symptoms and for a moment, subsumed them in his focus and solidified in the back of his mind before tapering off in a swirl of nausea and a flash of glittering migraine auras as the contact ceased, taking the almost-anchored feeling with it. The only thing left in its wake was a kind of vibration all over his body.

 

And then Kirk chuckled. “Oh,” he said as if he understood everything – as if Spock’s incapacitation made absolute sense. “No worries, Mister Spock. It happens to the best of us.”

 

Spock’s brows drew into a furrow between his eyes as he blinked them open. Jim had climbed to his feet and was wandering about on the other side of the room, not looking at Spock in the same manner that he didn’t look when they had to change clothing in shared space, or otherwise offer an illusion of privacy in order to preserve certain social conventions associated with the idea of privacy. Spock certainly understood the concept of privacy and personal space – it was endemic to Vulcan culture – but he could not puzzle out the reason for Jim’s adherence to the human version of it now. Humans did not view illness as a reason for granting privacy, but rather as an opportunity for lending assistance and empathy. Was Jim trying to respect the Vulcan ideal instead?

 

The curious feeling of weightlessness, a side effect of the over-oxygenation of his blood caused by rapid breathing and the sudden increase in his heart rate, subsided for the most part. Spock felt as if it could return at any moment, were he to move too quickly. The sick heat crawling over the surface of his skin remained, however, as did the heavy discomfort that rested low in his abdomen. He rolled his head to the left without lifting it so that he could better see Kirk occupying himself on the other side of the room.

 

As if he could feel Spock’s eyes resting on him, Kirk glanced over his shoulder and offered a sheepish smile. “Do you want to call it quits for the night? I know it’s probably not something you’re used to, considering I don’t think it’s happened before when we’ve sparred.”

 

Spock blinked at him and planted his left foot flat on the mat, knee raised in a pose that he recognized as defensive without really understanding his desire to move in that manner. He didn’t want to end their session, but he ceded to the logic of doing so. “That is probably for the best. I can then see Doctor McCoy before he retires for the night.”

 

Kirk frowned at him, confused. “Why? Have you been ill again? I thought that McCoy had all of that under control.”

 

“Negative; I have been quite well.” Spock pushed himself over onto his side and propped himself up on one hand. “But he should be made aware of this latest episode so that he can make note of it in my medical file.”

 

“Wait.” Kirk raised both hands as if to both ward Spock off and gesture at him to remain where he was. “What do you mean, he should note it in your file?” Then he balked in a curious, forward-moving manner, stuttering his feet against the edge of the mat. “Hold it – _this_ is one of those episodes that you started seeing him about?” He summed up Spock’s entire person with one slash of his arm. “I mean, everything else aside – the telepathy thing and the getting sick, and all of that – _this_ is one of your two-minute ‘episodes’?”

 

Spock pulled his legs around and folded them on the mat in front of himself. “Affirmative.” Mostly. At first, it had been typical of the low-level withdrawal symptoms that he had become accustomed to, but it had changed during the spar, and then whatever Kirk had done by touching his bare skin afterwards had put a stop to the worst of it. “Why do you… You are laughing at me.”

 

“No,” Kirk chuckled as he ambled back over and lowered himself to his knees in front of Spock. “No, I promise, I’m not laughing at you. I’m…totally going to give Bones shit about it later, but no, Spock. I thought you went to Bones because you were having more of the anxiety attacks, or because your telepathy was doing weird shit again.”

 

Spock regarded him with what was probably a disproportionate level of severity. “As I told Doctor McCoy, I am not subject to _attacks_ of anxiety; I merely become…overly perturbed at times.” To the best of his knowledge; he could be wrong. And yet he did not qualify his denial with that additional information.

 

Kirk gave him a sidelong look, appeared to debate arguing, and then merely shrugged. “Right, not now. It’s not like the ion storm now.” Before Spock could retort, he leaned forward and Spock didn’t have time to avoid the hands that came to rest suddenly on both of his shoulders. At least he touched through fabric this time. “But this? You actually think you’re sick?”

 

Annoyed now, Spock knocked his hands away and tried to look dignified rather than affronted. He perceived a dim impression from Jim, filtered to mental grays by the lack of physical contact, of an inflated, spined Terran fish. It merely served to further irritate Spock. “I assure you, I would not have consulted Doctor McCoy on the matter if I believed myself to be in perfect health.” Kirk snorted again, and Spock wondered just how rude it would be if he stood and walked out, considering that his own rudeness would be in counterpoint to Kirk’s. The two acts should mathematically cancel out, if mathematics could be applied to social interactions, but humans believed that ‘two wrongs don’t make a right.’ Vulcans believed similarly. It was irksome. “I fail to see what you find so amusing, sir.”

 

“Okay.” Kirk held his hands up in a gesture of capitulation. It mollified Spock a bit. “Okay, no, you’re right. I’m being insensitive.” He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, cleared his throat, and then regarded Spock with his composure intact. “Okay. I’m not sure exactly how it works for Vulcans since it doesn’t look like you got hard. So, I’m assuming that this sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen this way for you? And that’s why you’ve been seeing McCoy about it? I mean, it’s not like Bones told me _everything_ about what’s going on with you; I’m on need-to-know unless you decide otherwise.”

 

Spock regarded him blankly. “I do not understand. At what should I have become difficult?”

 

Kirk twitched forward with some sort of emotional exclamation that appeared not to reach the point of vocalization. “No, not…not difficult, Spock. _Hard_.”

 

“Yes.” Spock stared at him a moment longer. “Are these two words not synonymous in this context?”

 

“Are you serious? Don’t answer that; it was rhetorical.”

 

Spock shut his mouth and subsided in his posture.

 

Kirk scrubbed a hand through his hair as he appeared to need several moments to either gather his thoughts or overcome some brand of minor shock at Spock’s ignorance. It was gratifying to know that Kirk regarded his intellect so highly as to openly display surprise at Spock’s failure to understand him.

 

On a related topic, this conversation did at least serve to show Spock that Kirk knew of his ‘jokes’ concerning colloquialisms, and appreciated them as such; he could clearly tell the difference between Spock’s feigned ignorance and genuine confusion. Spock tallied that effort up as a success in his assimilation of human social custom and turned his attention back to his flustered captain. Surely there was no cause for such emotionalism? Teaching moments were to be offered freely and appreciated as such. Although, that was a Vulcan attitude; perhaps humans viewed such moments between equals or near-equals in a different light.

 

“Alright.” Kirk inhaled deeply and let it out in a sigh. “There’s no politically correct way to say this, so don’t take offense.”

 

Though it seemed a superfluous action, Spock nodded at him to continue.

 

“Okay. What I mean is, becoming aroused during physical exertion, especially when there’s a lot of body contact involved, is not a big deal. Maybe it is for Vulcans, but for humans, it’s normal. And you’re half human. So I really think that maybe you’re overreacting a bit here with the whole medical inquisition thing.”

 

Curious; Spock didn’t need to put forth any effort to keep his face blank. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Look, I know you’re pretty young as far as Vulcans go. Erm…developmentally, that is. Humans typically go through this stage when they’re teenagers, so believe me – I get it. It’s inconvenient as all fuck sometimes, but it’s nothing you’ve got to hide. Well, most of the time. When you’re off duty, or… I mean, if it’s _showing_ then obviously you can’t just…dammit. Okay. Here’s the thing.” He held his hands out in front of himself as if he could frame the words he wanted in his hands, his eyes unfocused and directed at a corner of the ceiling. His obvious difficulty would have been comical if Spock were inclined to think of things in that manner. Without coming to a resolution on phraseology, he abruptly dropped his hands and heaved a sigh. “Didn’t your parents give you this talk when you were a kid?”

 

“I assure you, my parents have never spoken to me in such a disorganized manner.”

 

Kirk dropped his eyes to Spock and scowled. “No, really. The Talk, Spock. You know?”

 

Spock shook his head, further bewildered by the implied capitalizations and Jim’s odd quotation gesture. “I do _not_ know.”

 

Kirk backpedalled abruptly and waved his hands about again in agitation. “The sex talk, Spock!”

 

“Ah.” Spock sat back and straightened himself into a more suitable posture for long term discussion, vaguely uncomfortable at the thought that Jim knew about Pon Farr and intended to speak about it now in relation to Spock’s ongoing condition. “Yes, my father provided this information to me, and I can state with confidence that it has no bearing on the current situation.”

 

“Why does it feel like we’re talking about two completely different things?”

 

Spock frowned at him as much as he ever did.

 

“Spock, I could feel it. I can kind of feel it now.” He made a shushing gesture for no apparent reason, frantic all of a sudden in his need to stop Spock from speaking even though Spock had made no movement to indicate that he intended to do so. “It’s just that I was touching you, and it was bare skin and fingers, and we’re right up in each other’s space now. I’m sure you didn’t mean to, but you must have let it overflow or something. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy or anything, but – ”

 

“I do not understand.” Yes, it was rude to interrupt someone, but he needed Kirk to stop babbling for a moment.

 

Kirk’s teeth clacked as he shut his mouth, and then he peered harder at Spock. He shook his head in a series of negative gestures as he hesitantly clarified, “You didn’t realize that you were aroused just now?”

 

Spock blinked, aware that his mouth was hanging open but unable to do anything to rectify the oversight. Finally, he repeated, his tone an odd combination of force and shaking quiet, “I do not understand.”

 

They stared at each other for seventeen seconds in absolute silence, and then Kirk declared, “Bullshit.”

 

Spock jerked his chin to one side and then aborted the remainder of the impulse to shake his head to convey his bewilderment.

 

Kirk’s brows flew up toward his hairline, and then his face abruptly folded in disbelief. “Spock, you can’t be serious.”

 

“I assure you, I am not feigning ignorance.” Spock balked faintly at the weak and pitchy quality of his own voice and withdrew to frown down at his tightly clasped hands. He had not been aware of leaning toward the captain at any point during their conversation.

 

In Spock’s periphery, Kirk rolled his gaze off to one side as if to better contemplate this predicament, one hand absently scratching at his calf. “Huh.” He grimaced at nothing and then started picking at the hem of his exercise shorts. “This is awkward.”

 

“I concur.” How could he have not known? Jim had to be incorrect. He was not a telepath; he could have misinterpreted the spillover from Spock, humanizing alien things again in an attempt to relate to them.

 

But then again, Spock was not, physiologically speaking, a mature Vulcan male. These sensations were largely unknown to him. Beyond the signs of an approaching rut cycle, which he had been taught about in a textbook fashion, he knew little of his own body in regards to…to…sexual matters. He knew his anatomy, and he understood the mechanics of intercourse as applied to a large number of species, but he had not anticipated a need for further practical information until – _if_ – his Time came. And even then, as he understood it, instinct would take over, so there was no logic in further study of the subject, especially since he had been estranged from his intended bondmate up until her death on Vulcan. Learning such things from another, while his intended lived and waited for him, would have been unconscionable and cruel.

 

“Jim?” Spock looked up and found Kirk regarding him openly if with a modicum of discomfort for the subject matter of their conversation. “Are you certain that the sensation I experienced was arousal?”

 

Kirk’s face turned an interesting shade of pink as he ducked his head and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, Spock. Positive.”

 

As if he really needed the clarification at this point, he pressed, “By you? I am aroused by you?”

 

“Well, I guess? I mean, it might not be me, specifically. It could have been the fighting…”

 

“But…I do not understand.” Logically, there was no need to continue repeating that, and yet it seemed the most sensible thing for him to utter every time he opened his mouth. Hoping for further explanation, he added, “The incident was not pleasant. It was upsetting and caused sensations similar to those experienced before one becomes physically ill.”

 

Kirk shrugged a bit, but in a completely noncommittal way. Usually, Kirk’s shrugs were meant as gestures of dismissal; this one meant something else. “Yeah, it can be a bit like that sometimes.”

 

“All of the time?” Spock pressed. He was leaning forward again and had to curb the movement before he entered the sphere of proximity that humans usually took to be intimidating. None of the odd episodes had born any relation to what he expected arousal to feel like. He had wanted nothing more than for the unaccustomed feelings to cease.

 

Kirk froze, his eyes flickering to Spock’s briefly, and then he exclaimed, “I think you were right before. You should go see McCoy.”

 

“But you have just explained that my predicament is not medical in nature.” Spock watched Kirk climb quickly to his feet and then go about tidying the room for the next users. “Captain?”

 

“Yeah, see, this isn’t really the kind of conversation I’m comfortable having with my first officer. It’s really more McCoy’s area.”

 

Spock’s features turned pensive as he rose to a standing position. “I am causing you discomfort over a sexual matter.” He recognized an impulse to apologize. “You are invoking protocols meant to convey that you feel unduly pressured to engage in a conversation which – ”

 

“Oh my god! Spock, you are not sexually harassing me. Stop.”

 

Spock drew back, unable to prevent himself from assuming a mildly defensive stance. “Then I do not unders – ”

 

“Will you – ” Kirk put his hands up next to his own temples and pinched his thumbs and forefingers in some sort of gesture of exasperation that Spock was not familiar with. “ – quit saying that! I know you don’t understand – that’s the _problem_! Don’t you get it? No – no, don’t; that was rhetorical again. Just – ” He faced his palm toward Spock and shook it at him. Apparently, that gesture was meant to complete his last aborted command.

 

Spock crossed his arms and regarded him as he would a small and incomprehensible child, but he obediently refrained from all attempts to further the conversation.

 

Kirk huffed as if he were the one being inconvenienced here. “Thank you.”

 

Unable to help himself, Spock told him, “You are being unreasonable.”

 

Kirk grabbed his hair in both hands, disordered it, and then stalked over to start rolling up the mat they had used even though Spock was still standing on it.

 

“You are in possession of facts which I lack,” Spock pressed. Kirk always did know how best to provoke him to fits of annoyance. Perhaps this was a practical demonstration of the Terran adage _familiarity breeds contempt_. “You have already indicated that you are capable of providing me with this information, and yet you are withholding it for no logical reason that I am able to ascertain, other than that you state you are not comfortable discussing it with me.”

 

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Kirk tossed the mat back to the floor – Spock hadn’t moved off of it anyway, so trying to put it away would have been pointless.

 

“However, I have overheard you discussing topics of a sexual nature with forty eight different crewmembers on one hundred and eighteen separate occasions, and you displayed no similar discomfort with them.”

 

“You’re a stubborn ass, you know that?”

 

Spock ignored that assertion, as it had no bearing on the matter at hand. “You also employ flirtatious behavior in forty eight percent of your interactions with crewmembers, dignitaries, superior officers – ”

 

“Excuse me – I _what!?_ ”

 

“ – and this does not even take into account the numerous innuendos and jokes that you routinely engage in that contain either implicitly or explicitly sexual subject matter.”

 

“I do _not_ flirt with my crew!”

 

“Therefore, I must conclude that your aversion to this discussion has to do with me specifically, and not the subject matter itself, in which case I demand to know why you would single me out as the only person thus far with whom you refuse to engage in a – ”

 

“Because I want to have sex with you!”

 

Spock let his jaw hang open in the middle of his next intended word, which had already shriveled somewhere behind his tongue. Eventually, closing his mouth struck him as a good idea, so he did. Close his mouth, that is.

 

Kirk was still standing with his arms flung out to either side, an expansive and passively challenging gesture. “Are you happy now?”

 

Spock glared at him and then snapped, “No. You are still in possession of information which I lack.”

 

“What – ” Kirk let his arms flop down to dangle at his sides. “ – is _wrong_ with you?”

 

And that really was the last straw, because Spock had been trying to figure that out for months. “ _I don’t know_!”

 

Kirk stumbled backwards at the outburst and froze, regarding Spock with open trepidation, as if expecting an assault.

 

For his own part, Spock bit hard at his lip to contain any further unwarranted displays of emotion and tried to convince himself that he did not need to keep his hands balled into fists like this. It was an aggressive pose, and he did not mean to threaten Kirk no matter how irritating it was to know that he was withholding vital information from Spock for _trivial_ reasons.

 

Kirk seemed to read something in Spock’s posture that Spock himself was not aware of because he softened considerably and stepped closer, his hands open at his sides. Non-threatening. It was in pointed contrast to Spock’s continued aggression and closed stance. “You’re really upset about this,” Kirk said gently.

 

“Your statement is redundant.” Spock shut his eyes as soon as he noted the tremble of his own voice. He was shaking. Rage, perhaps. Other things as well. “There is no logic in stating the obvious. It is a waste of time and breath.”

 

Warm human fingers slid up over Spock’s trapezius. From a Vulcan, the gesture would be an implicit threat and a warning to control himself before the matter was taken into someone else’s hands. Humans used it to convey a sense of camaraderie and to comfort; it was like saying, _You are not alone. Let me help._ Spock could even hear the words bridging the empty spaces gaping between them. _Let me help._ No one had touched him like that in what felt like months. Kirk brushed against his arm sometimes in passing, but nothing more. Spock had read once that humans required physical contact in order to survive – that its lack caused physical instabilities and detriment to the human body. This thought seemed out of place here even though some part of him seemed to consider it relevant.

 

Kirk put his other hand on Spock as well, on the opposite shoulder, framing Spock’s neck. “Hey. Slow breaths, Spock.” _Easy there, buddy – you’re freaking me out a bit here._

 

Spock twitched at the unspoken words bleeding into him through the inadequate buffer of his shirt, an accidental transference. “I am not ill?” He couldn’t help it; he needed someone to confirm that much in plain language, at least.

 

“No, I don’t think you are,” Kirk replied. “Not over this, anyway.” The words carried in puffs of air across Spock’s face; he was standing very close, then. “Just…very young in some ways.”

 

Spock gave a jerky nod and then gulped down a breath in an effort to arrest the wild beating of his heart. This level of emotional turmoil was unanticipated. He had not realized how concerned he truly was by the episodes and the uncertainty inherent in not really knowing when they would strike or how to prevent them. The oversight could not be repeated. He would have to meditate on the matter to determine how he missed the signs of building stress within himself. McCoy had been correct about the anxiety. Spock did not want him to find out.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kirk murmured at some point later; Spock’s internal clock had ceased to function, but it normalized with a moment’s focus. “I didn’t realize you were this upset. I wouldn’t have been so flippant about it if I had.”

 

This was not Kirk’s fault. This was Spock’s oversight. He should have recognized the problem himself, and then this backlog of stressful emotions never would have formed, and this outburst would not have occurred, and perhaps with this additional knowledge, a treatment could have been devised to assist in controlling his telepathy so that he did not have to abandon crewmates on away teams on account of an upset stomach –

 

Kirk’s hands tightened on either side of Spock’s head. “ _Calm_ , Spock. Come on; you were doing pretty well for a minute there.” He hesitated, then asked, “Should I stop touching you? If I’m making this harder for you, just – ”

 

Spock seized at Kirk’s fingers without fully processing his own intent to do so and pressed them back in place. “No – ”

 

“Okay,” Kirk soothed quickly. He tightened his hands again where they had at some point migrated up to cup Spock’s skull, fingers threaded around ears and tickling toward his nape. Kirk’s thumbs rubbed gentle, tiny circles into the skin at the hinges of Spock’s jaw. “Not going anywhere.”

 

Spock nodded but kept his hands pressed over Kirk’s because…he wasn’t sure why. He needed…something…

 

Kirk glided closer, his higher body heat radiating against Spock. “Just relax a bit. It’s no big deal.” _Trust me, trust me, trust me like I trust you, Spock, come on. I would never hurt you, just let me help._

 

Suddenly, it was very important that Kirk understand things. Not specific things, really, but… _things_. Spock deplored this imprecision, and this uncontrollable shaking, and the emotions contributing to both. “They did not expect me to survive to viable birth. No hybrid had before me. As a child, they kept telling my parents to expect my premature death. They said that my genetic code was not stable and that defects would appear and accumulate without cease. Sarek repeatedly cautioned my mother not to become emotionally attached to me; he did not stop doing so until I reached my twelfth year. The human immune factors in my blood should not be compatible with the Vulcan base substance. I should be allergic to myself. They said – ”

 

“Jesus, Spock.” Kirk loosened one hand, and for a moment, Spock panicked – he actually _panicked_ – thinking that Kirk was pulling away, that he would be denied this. “You’ve spent the past, what, year and a half thinking you were finally dying?” The absent hand reappeared against Spock’s flank, and even though Spock flinched pretty violently, he also surged into the arm offering a fuller embrace. “Whoa, okay.” Kirk let their bodies press together at awkward angles, and only then did Spock become fully cognizant of how much control he had lost over himself.

 

“I thought it was happening,” Spock confessed, his mouth pressed against the soft cotton covering Jim’s shoulder. His eyes were open now and he blinked unseeing at the bulkhead near the door. “I could find no explanation for the breakdown in my telepathic processes, or for how I could become so attached to the ship that I risked severe illness any time I chose to leave it, or why your presence should make such a difference in the severity of my symptoms, and Doctor McCoy could find no medical solution – ” He frowned against Jim’s shoulder, concerned to note his own rapidly building tension. “I am…I am being irrational. This is an emotional episode.”

 

Kirk laughed gently and Spock shivered at the puff of air rushing past his ear. He let Kirk wrap a hand over the back of his neck as if to hold a shying animal in place. Kirk’s other arm completed its migration around the middle of Spock’s back and there was a certain security in having it braced there, tucked beneath his shoulder blades. “Yeah, it’s an emotional episode. I won’t tell anyone.”

 

That was a joke; there was amusement beneath Jim’s skin. But it was also a promise.  “You are the missing variable,” Spock told him. Told his shirt, to be accurate. “I am not bonded in some way to the ship. It is my ability to sense you, specifically, which governs the episodes.”

 

“Well, we’ve been through a lot together,” Kirk offered. “And you’ve said before that we’re pretty compatible, mentally.”

 

Spock frowned harder and allowed himself to be fit more firmly against Kirk’s body. The strange burning had returned; it pulsed below his navel and he felt faint and ill and angry all at once. “I have been using you as a focal point without your consent.”

 

“Hey, no. I told you that you could have anything you needed from the friendship, remember? Spock, you lost _everything_ to Nero. I’m honored that you could rely on me to get you through that, okay?”

 

Spock nosed at the cotton-covered shoulder pressed against his face. “You are not angry? A Vulcan would be angry at such a violation.”

 

“Good thing I’m human, then.” Kirk radiated concern and affection everywhere they touched. “It terrifies me to read the reports from New Vulcan and think that you could end up like that one of these days. Now I know that you won’t. I can stop you from going from out of your mind at the silence. Do you really think I could be angry knowing that?”

 

“No.” Spock dug his fingers into the hard blade of a shoulder. “It is not in your nature to withhold compassion.”

 

Kirk nodded, and qualified, “Not from you.” Given enough time, Spock might have pondered the import of that statement, but before he could properly digest it, an exasperated exclamation of, _God, you’re repressed_ , wafted across the surface of Spock’s mind.

“I am not repressed,” Spock snarled in response. He recognized the irony, of course, but refused to retract his statement.

 

Kirk patted him in an almost patronizing fashion, but before Spock could give vent to an irrational degree of irritation, Kirk began to disentangle himself. Spock stiffened at the rejection but Kirk only withdrew far enough to be able to look him in the eye. “Spock. If I do anything you don’t want, you need to tell me.”

 

Spock allowed his eyebrows to pull inward, his confusion plain on his face.

 

“I mean it,” Kirk insisted, and it suddenly seemed very urgent that he get his point across. “Anything, Spock. That’s an order.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Spock answered out of habit, but there was a gravity to Kirk’s demeanor that shook his composure even further than what he had already managed to do to himself.

 

Kirk nodded, an unnecessary acknowledgement, and then raised both hands to cup Spock’s face. Thoughts in midform filtered between them. _Could be dead, so many killed themselves, shock at the quiet, he must feel so alone._ He studied Spock’s features for a moment, which merely added to Spock’s anxiety, and then he leaned closer until Spock was breathing Kirk’s exhaled air. He liked that part – inhaling gaseous molecules that came directly from inside of Jim. Was this a human comfort ritual? It was similar to what Nyota had done on several occasions. Kirk offered a non-verbal inquiry and they made eye contact. In the midst of that distraction, Kirk’s lips pressed against the corner of Spock’s mouth.

 

Spock’s entire frame seized up like an old rusted cogwheel clock. He blinked, and the interval was long enough to change the focus of his gaze. Ah. Yes, Nyota had kissed him as well in her offerings of emotional comfort, but not like this; her offerings were aggressive with an element of claiming – of social ritual and courtship. Perhaps the difference was due to Kirk’s being male? Spock now peered past Kirk’s left ear, not really seeing the bulkhead over his shoulder. Was he breathing anymore? The floating, poorly-oxygenated-blood feeling had tumbled back into being. Kirk’s thumbnails traced delicate lines down the softest parts of Spock’s cheeks, and Spock felt his face tightening as he processed this sensation. His legs were no longer entirely steady and he felt strangely cold, but burning like dry ice.

 

“Okay?” Kirk whispered, just a breath of worded air.

 

Spock closed his mouth; at least his lips had only been slightly parted in emotional reaction. Surprise? Yes, surprise; Kirk’s action had been unexpected. Spock swallowed and felt his nostrils flaring as Kirk’s breath continued to bathe his face. His reaction to Kirk differed from his reaction to Nyota. Was it a qualitative difference? Or one having to do with his stronger mental affinity for Kirk? He must examine this more closely; obviously, there were nuances to this particular human comforting ritual that Spock did not understand beyond a basic, instinctive level. He had thought that kissing was primarily a courting behavior for humans, though there were exceptions for family and close friends. His mother had kissed him as a child.

 

Kirk evidently took his silence as some form of consent; he closed the distance between them again, pressing his lips to the same place on Spock’s face but holding there for several heartbeats this time. Spock’s gaze slid further to the left as he analyzed his own reactions. Lack of reactions, actually. Vulcans did not kiss thus. There was no reaction in his body aside from the continuance of his reactions from before Kirk had kissed him: he continued to tremble, and the sick heat like heartburn remained, roiling low on his right side. Kirk pulled back again, but he withdrew only point eight inches where before he had backed away a full four point three. One of his thumbs migrated to scrape over the place where his lips had just been. Spock wondered when he had moved to grip Kirk’s arms just above each elbow.

 

Kirk breathed some sort of non-syllabic affirmation and bent his head so that he could nose at Spock’s cheek. What did this mean in human terms? Was this supposed to be pleasurable? The hand that had previously been caressing the right side of Spock’s face pressed against his skin with slightly more pressure, skimming backwards, and when Kirk’s middle finger slid firmly up behind Spock’s ear – _that_ caused a reaction. Spock inhaled sharply and unevenly, his eyes widening before his face tightened into lines normally reserved for intense concentration. The vague permeation of Jim’s mind brushing against his in a shapeless billowing haze made him dizzy, and he wanted…no, _needed_ it, he needed not to be cold like this anymore, and Jim was so warm…

 

Spock felt himself tipping his head back, pressing against Kirk’s hand to increase the pressure, and when his lips parted this time, a faint groan whispered from his throat.

 

“Yes,” Kirk breathed as if witnessing the perfect breaking of a delicate thing. He rubbed his finger against Spock’s mastoid bone, his thumb digging into the cartilage folded around his aural cavity, thumb nail caught along the rim as Kirk traced a steady line toward the pointed tip.

 

Spock straightened as if run through by a live current, peripherally aware that his toes had curled inside the soft shoes he wore for sparring. He twisted to worm his way farther into the grasp of the fingers splayed all over his right ear, clutched at Kirk’s shirt and tried not to fall off of his own feet as he stumbled, knees buckling momentarily at the ebbing wave of sensations that he did not know how to process or overcome. Physical, mental, all blended into one and stuck tight in his throat.

 

Kirk slipped his free hand under Spock’s arm and around his back to help brace him, all the while rubbing and tracing fingers around and over the sensitive cartilage of his right ear. “You really like that,” he breathed, sounding incredulous, and his exhalation wisped past the hollow of Spock’s left ear, a warm, teasing billow of moist air.

 

It sent Spock shuddering hard into some sort of paroxysm, and he gouged the toes of his right foot into the mat as he sucked in several rapid, harsh breaths in quick succession, one after another until he could no longer tell whether his dizziness was due to over-oxygenation or the things that Kirk was doing to him – the simple fact that Kirk existed with him. He could feel what his own skin felt like to the skin of Kirk’s fingers.

 

Spock grabbed at Kirk’s shoulder and dug his nails in, resetting his feet to steady himself only to suddenly give into the urge to push himself against Kirk’s body and squirm against the heat that bloomed there. Kirk was still pinching and squeezing and rubbing at his ear, and Spock kept gasping at the unexpected sensations, sparks that seemed to skip from his ear to his spine and then radiate down to the small of his back until it finally grew so intense that he grabbed at Kirk with both hands, desperate for _more /harder/stop/wait/please!_ and let out a hoarse, garbled cry like a distressed animal.

 

Everything stopped suddenly enough to send Spock’s senses reeling even as he sagged and had to hang onto Kirk to keep from collapsing to the mat. He buried his nose in Kirk’s shoulder only because his head suddenly felt so heavy that he could not keep it up, and he couldn’t blink to reduce the burn of dry corneas because his eyes were too wide with the shock of the whole thing. Kirk had a firm grip on him, so he did not concern himself with the possibility that he might fall after all. They were swaying slightly, back and forth – Kirk’s doing, and Spock’s lungs were all but shuddering with…with residual reaction to…this…

 

Kirk shifted and combed his fingers through Spock’s hair, gentling him as he came down from whatever high Kirk had inflicted on him. “Shh…okay…okay…”

 

Spock listened to these meaningless words long enough to realize that they were meant as a response of some sort to the sounds that he himself was still making as he trembled and tried to suppress the billowing, pulsing heat spreading unchecked in a flush all over the surface of his body. He sounded as if his lungs were filled with fluid and he was still breathing in spite of it, and he was whimpering the way he had once heard a small Terran dog whimper when left alone in a closed room. It was too much. Too much sensory input, too many new _feelings_ invading his body, and not just the emotional ones but the physical as well. He felt as if his skin were an organism unto itself, and every one of his nerve endings screamed for it to be sedated.

 

“Sorry,” Kirk murmured. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

 

Spock reset his feet so that he wasn’t balanced quite so precariously anymore, and continued to sway back and forth to the rhythm of Kirk’s body. He should not be indulging like this. His behavior was irrational and shameful, and completely against fraternization regulations. And…he kind of wanted to throw up.

 

As if reluctant to hear the actual answer to his question, Kirk asked, “How do you feel?”

 

Spock meant to reply _your question is imprecise_ , or _this inquiry is irrelevant_ , but he couldn’t seem to make his tongue work properly. Instead of responding, he forced his eyes closed and gave into the impulse to fill his lungs with the scent that clung to Kirk’s shirt. It left him feeling lightheaded and that peculiar burn at the bottom of his abdomen flared hotly.

 

This must have been an acceptable form of response in Terran terms, unbeknownst to Spock, because Kirk tightened his grip and stifled a laugh against Spock’s neck. “That good?”

 

Prickles of heat were spreading all over his body in a fever flush that threatened to bleed darkness into the edges of his vision. His skin crawled with thoughts and impressions and sensations that were not his own, too many and too fast to be sorted or identified or even blocked. If Jim was feeling good things, Spock could not tell; he felt only his own discomfort and the heaviness and a vague sense of having been violated.

 

It was imperative that Spock answer with words this time because otherwise, Jim might get the wrong idea about their interactions thus far. “While I find our current activity agreeable, I must warn you that there is a high probability of my becoming physically ill within the next minute.” He couldn’t find it in himself to be more precise right then.

 

Kirk stuttered into stillness and then tugged Spock off of himself in a manner reminiscent of prying a squid from one’s chest. He held Spock at arm’s length and examined him critically before announcing, “Right. Locker room.”

 

Spock was indeed ill in the locker room. Not in the stall as a human would be, but in the shower area. Vulcans had a reduced gag reflex in comparison to most humanoid species – an evolutionary trait designed to reduce the severity of dehydration during illness in a desert-dwelling species. They were therefore more prone to choking on their own vomit when they did become ill in that manner. Jim stayed with him to make sure that didn’t happen, and some distant part of Spock’s brain had the temerity to point out the similarities between his current position – forehead to the tiled floor, rear end raised to maximize the assistance of gravity in the process, like a Terran feline – and a common human sexual position. He was not amused.

 

Once Spock was finished, abdominal muscles sore and throat raw from the acidy of his own bile, he collapsed onto his side and allowed himself the comfort of curling into a ball while he caught his breath.

 

“Should I call for a med team?” Kirk sounded more upset than seemed necessary. “Shit, why didn’t you tell me to stop?” To himself, he muttered, “Only you could give a Vulcan a panic attack, JT. That’s just fucking brilliant.”

 

“I did not experience a panic attack,” Spock rasped. The itch in his throat made him cough several times, lung-wracking paroxysms that hurt more than he was willing to admit. “I was simply unprepared for the intensity of that experience.”

 

Kirk shook his head. “You know, according to standard protocol, this is a medical emergency. I made a Vulcan throw up, Spock.”

 

“I am not unduly affected.”

 

“Not unduly affected? You’re laying in a shower stall next to a puddle of your own sick, hyperventilating, because I _touched_ you!”

 

“It will pass.”

 

Kirk regarded him incredulously and then shifted his focus to the ceiling instead.

 

“Jim.” Once Spock had regained his attention, he tried to explain, “This is not your fault. As I am primarily a touch telepath, I am occasionally overwhelmed by unexpected physical contact. In addition, as I have stated in the past, our minds are strongly attuned and highly compatible, resulting in a more intense degree of interaction which is naturally difficult for me to block. I will acclimate as my mind becomes accustomed to you, and next time, I will have a better idea of what to expect.”

 

Kirk nodded, sighed, and seemed to reach a decision that he found unpleasant. “There won’t be a next time, Spock. I overstepped my boundaries, both as your friend and as your commanding officer.” He glanced over long enough to take in the sight of Spock curled up and shivering on the shower stall floor. He must have made a pitiable sight because Kirk looked even more guilty when he added, “I’m sorry. I never should have started this.”

 

Spock blinked and then, perhaps irrationally, protested, “But I did not ask you to stop.”

 

Kirk nodded, but his words were not those of agreement. “You never should have been in a position to have to ask.” He averted his gaze in favor of examining his own hands as if they had caused offense. “I mean, god – Spock, I’m actually well aware of the fact that you’re considered underaged by Vulcan standards.”

 

“I am half human,” Spock reminded him. “By human standards, I am well past the age of consent.”

 

“You didn’t even know what you were feeling until I told you!” Kirk burst out.

 

Spock recoiled and then pushed himself into a sitting position. “This matters to you? That I have no previous experience in sexual matters?”

 

“No! Spock, what matters to me is that the way you behaved…” He trailed off helplessly and scrubbed both hands into his hair before admitting in a tiny voice, “I feel like I just molested a kid. You were scared and upset, and you trusted me, and I took advantage of that to the point where you _threw up_ from it.”

 

Spock’s mouth worked silently for several seconds, and then he countered, “But I am an adult. You did nothing to which I did not consent.”

 

Kirk shook his head, the movement more violent than the circumstances called for. “You don’t get it.”

 

“Only because you have failed to provide an adequate explanation. Is it because we share a friendship? Is sexual behavior frowned upon between human male friends?”

 

Under his breath, Kirk mumbled, “Fuck.”

 

Spock gave him a moment to fret because humans occasionally seemed to need that for some reason that escaped him. Then he said, “Jim, I would like to understand your reasoning in this matter.”

 

Kirk looked at him without lifting his head, his eyes bleak as if he were looking at the most morally reprehensible thing he had ever done. At first, Spock thought that he would refuse further conversation on this subject – again – but something seemed to give in Kirk’s expression. “Spock, there’s a reason why the letter of the law calls it _informed_ consent, and not just _permission to have at it_. It’s like those license agreements that pop up whenever you download a computer program for personal use. You click accept because you want to use the program, but you have _no idea_ what you just agreed to in order to get it.”

 

Spock ducked his head to better allow Kirk to see the severity with which he regarded this information. “Jim, are you confessing to entering into contractual agreements without reading the clauses by which you are expected to abide?”

 

Kirk threw his hands up. “That is _not_ the point I was trying to make! And by the way, no one reads those, Spock; it’s a waste of time.”

 

“I always read the terms of any agreement by which I am legally bound to abide. It is irresponsible and illogical to sign your name to a contract you have not read and do not understand simply to secure the use of a computer program.”

 

“Yes!” Kirk pointed seven fingers at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. Do you get it now?”

 

“Jim, how many licensing agreements have you signed without first reading their contents?”

 

Kirk dropped his arms as if Spock still weren’t seeing his point. Which made no sense since Spock had no trouble following the thread of this particular conversation.

 

Spock spent a moment contemplating the dilemma. “It may be possible to obtain copies of the most relevant agreements, if not every agreement you have ever signed. We would only need to determine which programs you make use of, and rule out those that were provided as part of the basic core set of programs installed on all pertinent devices by Starfleet.”

 

When Spock looked up to gauge Kirk’s agreeability to this plan of action, it was to find Kirk pinching the bridge of his nose, head shaking despondently. “Spock…forget I ever mentioned the license agreements.”

 

Spock frowned. “But Captain – ”

 

“That’s an order.”

 

“…yes, sir.”

 

“So, the point I was _trying_ to make,” Kirk continued, his words forced as if he were suppressing a strong emotion which threatened to contaminate the words, “is that for humans, there is a strong cultural and biological aversion to doing what I just did. You understand cultural conditioning, Spock. You’re like the walking handbook for it.”

 

Spock narrowed his eyes because he could not be certain, but he suspected that at least part of that statement was either insulting or inflammatory. “I must have misunderstood this statement, because it implies that there is a natural human aversion to pursuing opportunities for sexual intercourse, and this is patently untrue.”

 

Kirk twisted his mouth up to one side in an expression that Spock had come to understand signified an odd blend of fondness, exasperation, impatience, and a profound lack of amusement that was paradoxically considered comical in some fashion. “Are you trying to be funny, Mister Spock?”

 

“Never,” Spock replied with utter sincerity. Then he abruptly frowned, but he was unable to identify the source of his unease. “Sir, if I have behaved in some manner which is considered unacceptable – ”

 

He broke off as Kirk’s hands landed heavily on both of his shoulders, and lifted his gaze in an effort to read Kirk’s expression or body language. The cues given off were…confusing, and in contradiction with the emotions that he _felt_ through Kirk’s grasp. Kirk’s face appeared open and sincere, and above all, friendly. If Spock had not been able to sense the shame and fear and uncertainty, as well as the residue of lust beneath that exterior, he would never have suspected that the facial expression was false. Perhaps he should revise his conclusion concerning Jim’s possible sociopathic tendencies.

 

“Spock, listen. I know that you don’t think apologies are necessary, but I apologize. For this whole thing. And I really do think that you should talk to McCoy about it. Not me. Let’s just say I have a conflict of interest in the matter.”

 

“Because you harbor a sexual interest in me.”

 

“Yeah.” Kirk appeared sheepish – he _radiated_ unease. “And I don’t trust myself not to take advantage of the situation.”

 

“Your moral character precludes this possibility.”

 

“Not so much, Spock, but thanks.”

 

“But – ”

 

“See McCoy. That’s an order.”

 

Indeed, it was; Spock could hear that in the hardening of tone as well as feel the push toward obeisance that Kirk’s voice naturally conveyed. In spite of that, Spock admitted, “I am no longer comfortable with the thought of discussing this issue with Doctor McCoy. It is no longer a purely medical matter. To Vulcans, any discussion of one’s sexuality is considered deeply personal and…shameful. Especially if there are complications with one’s sexual behavior, or deviations from the norm. Finding myself unintentionally aroused at any time not connected to my natural mating cycle or the activities of a bonded mate constitutes an aberration that… Jim, I do not enjoy the necessary level of personal relations with Doctor McCoy to enable any degree of openness with him. A discussion would not produce the desired results.”

 

Kirk studied him for a moment, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he parsed all of this out. “So, you’re saying that talking to Doctor McCoy would be too embarrassing?”

 

Spock nodded, but qualified that with, “If it is necessary to interpret my assertions emotionally, then yes; I cannot speak with him.”

 

“But you can speak with me.” Kirk had cocked his head and now eyed Spock sidelong as if the differing visual angle would reveal any unspoken truths.

 

“Yes.” Spock nodded again and became abruptly aware of the hot human hands still gripping his shoulders like brands. “You have stated on multiple occasions that we are friends by the human definition of that relationship, and you made an argument for the Vulcan definition as well. If this is true, then in the absence of an elder male family member or a bonded brother, I may speak to you of these matters without shame.”

 

“That’s…” Kirk seemed to weigh several answers for their appropriateness in this situation, and then settled on, “…weird. But…flattering. In a weird way.”

 

Spock arched an eyebrow, convinced that this response did at least constitute an honest appraisal of Kirk’s opinion on the matter. It also matched his outward facial expression this time. “Then we may speak further on this matter?”

 

Kirk bit the inside of his cheek and finally released Spock after patting the outsides of his arms a few times. Spock had seen humans do this before; it seemed to be a gesture of comfort as well as capitulation. Emotionally, Kirk was reluctant; that was the last thing Spock sensed from him before Kirk removed himself from immediate physical proximity. “I need some distance on it, okay? Just…not right now.”

 

“Understood. I will await your further broaching of the subject.”

 

“Right.” Kirk absently chewed on a thumbnail as he ambled away, clearly preoccupied.

 

Spock did not anticipate a quick resolution to the matter, but he was nothing if not patient, even when he did not like the thought of waiting and saw no logical reason for the delay. Humans were not always logical, however, and for some reason, in this context, that fact did not annoy Spock as it normally would have. It was not necessarily a good thing, mainly because it constituted a deviation from his normal behavior. Spock resolved to examine his emotional controls at the first available opportunity; they had shattered far too easily under Kirk’s influence this evening. In the mean time, he allowed Kirk to assist in cleaning up the mess he had made of the shower stall. It seemed to assuage some of Kirk’s guilt, at least.

 

* * * * *

 

A full Terran month passed and Kirk did not approach Spock for what Kirk had referred to, if only in a moment of jest, as The Talk. This seemed unusual, as Kirk had been quite reliable in other aspects of their friendship, until Spock recalled that some peculiar human social rituals required a polite ‘brush-off’ in order to end a subject of discussion permanently without offending either party, and without need to resort to a blunt and final refusal, which in human interactions was often considered unacceptably rude. Humans were expected to understand the noncommittal end agreement and then allow time lapsed to render the issue ‘forgotten.’ The majority of the exchange was supposed to be implied rather than explicitly stated. Spock blamed this for his failure to recognize the interaction as a ‘brush-off.’

 

When he realized what had actually occurred in the locker room, Spock’s initial reaction was anger followed by a sense of betrayal at what he, as a Vulcan, saw as a false promise of aid. A lie. In retrospect, Kirk had committed to nothing when he had stated that he required ‘distance’ concerning Spock’s request; Spock had simply made an assumption which he recognized now to have been in error. It left him unsure of how to proceed, not least because of the vehemence of his emotional reactions to being denied in this manner, and over a subject about which Spock truly did need guidance. He resolved to meditate further on the issue, and also made a mental note to always require blunt statements of intent when conversing with humans.

 

Even after copious efforts to meditate on the incident, Spock could not dispel the emotion of anger in association with Kirk’s unwillingness to assist him. Some part of him recognized that a loss of trust had occurred at knowing that he had requested help on what was to him a troubling and deeply personal matter, and not only had he been dismissed, but Kirk had done so in an underhanded manner. This behavior ran counter to what Kirk had told him was the definition of friendship. Spock would be slow to trust Kirk again in any similar situation in the future, and _that_ saddened him. He had wanted to believe that the friendship his elder counterpart had mentioned would indeed enrich and define parts of his life. Spock did not see how that could be possible when Kirk could so easily refuse him such paltry aid as a mere conversation.

 

It was nothing new to Spock, however – being unable to rely on another. He had always understood that he would have to be unfailing in his self-sufficiency. It was something that Vulcans learned young, and being somewhat ostracized for being only half-Vulcan, Spock had more need than most to ensure his own ability to survive unaided. He had been remiss in allowing himself to forget this - in allowing anyone, even Jim, to convince him that there were other options.

 

In a further blow to Spock’s emotional control, Kirk stopped scheduling sparring sessions with him. He also reduced their time spent alone in quarters and insisted that when they play chess or take meals together, they do so in one of the mess halls or crew recreation rooms. Spock knew intellectually that these changes were manifestations of the ‘distance’ that Kirk had stated he required, and not a cessation of caring for Spock’s wellbeing. It was jarring nonetheless, and Spock found that without spending his free time in Kirk’s company, he had very little to do outside of the performance of his duties.

 

Though Spock knew that the change in routine was not his fault, per se, the emotionality of the matter was not that simple. Spock’s actions and his inability to maintain control over his own body had led to the situation where Kirk felt distance to be necessary. Therefore, it _was_ Spock’s fault that Kirk could no longer trust them to be alone together – could no longer promote any sort of platonic intimacy between them. Spock had, in effect, ruined what had been fast turning into the most important and intense personal relationship he had ever experienced, and all because of his shortcomings as a Vulcan – his lack of control. If he had been able to sufficiently discipline his mind and body as all Vulcans are taught from infancy, none of this would have occurred and Kirk would still consider him a close and privileged friend. Without that relationship to rely on, Spock found himself lonely in a way he had not felt since first leaving Vulcan.

 

Perhaps these myriad things were what led Spock to the bar on Meridian Prime during shore leave nearly two months after the sparring and locker room incident. There were no cultural attractions near enough to the Fleet base to allow him sufficient time for an exploration as the ship would only be in orbit for twenty-four hours. In a farce of McCoy’s authority as CMO, he had ordered Spock to take shore leave anyway, even after Spock had explained that nothing within the proximate radius of their approved beam down point could attract his interest. Spock wasn’t sure what McCoy expected him to do when he knew as well as Spock that bars and brothels and dance clubs added to Spock’s stress levels rather than alleviating them. Surely McCoy realized that making Spock take leave under these circumstances would be detrimental to him?

 

McCoy had insisted, of course; he could be quite resistant to logic when the mood struck him. So Spock had transported down as ordered on the first rotation, illogically hoping that he could find a quiet coffee house or deli off the main thoroughfare where his Vulcan senses would not be too sorely taxed until such time as he could return to the ship without incurring McCoy’s wrath.

 

What he found instead was a bar decorated in an Oriental Terran theme with overtones of the less flamboyantly sexual of Orion artistic forms. It was actually quite tasteful, plush and comfortable without being gaudy, and the patrons seemed to be as interested in peace and quiet as Spock. He appropriated a dim booth along one wall – little more than a nook with a low table and cushions on the floor for sitting cross-legged – and was immediately presented with a menu and a glass of iced water.

 

It seemed that the staff catered very carefully to their clientele, as he obviously held a menu different from the one given to the Edosians at the next table. All of the items on Spock’s menu were Vulcan drinks and dishes, with a small selection of beverages from other worlds that would be well received by the Vulcan palate. Spock allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having found this venue; it would serve adequately. Even without a forced shore leave, he would have chosen to patronize this establishment, had he known of its existence beforehand.

 

The venue quickly reached capacity, but the atmosphere remained the same. Spock noted that once a certain number of patrons had entered, all others were turned away at the door to preserve the air of calm and solitude. Only when someone left were others allowed in. This was logical; Spock had grown accustomed to the manner in which humans milled about in bars and restaurants, occupying all available free space, hovering until tables were vacated. To find an establishment run along more considerate lines was refreshing.

 

After consuming a bowl of cooked Vulcan _mut_ grain flavored with various nuts and fruits, well worth the expense for the rarity of the dish post-Nero, Spock vacated his table and moved to take a seat at the bar in the next room. This part of the establishment was also well appointed without being crowded or pretentious. There were few humans present, which Spock found intriguing since the Fleet base’s population as well as its ship traffic was primarily Terran in origin. He received several long looks upon being identified as Vulcan, but nothing untoward or excessive.

 

Being an endangered species was still a novel thing to him. On the Enterprise, no one remarked upon his race; he was simply Spock, their First Officer. It still took him by surprise, whenever he travelled off the ship, to be singled out as a member of a dying breed. It was also unsettling, no matter how polite those around him tried to be. For instance, though no one openly studied him after he ordered his second drink, several patrons were dwelling on thoughts of Vulcan with enough concentration that Spock could tell even without touching them. It wasn’t that he could hear words or see pictures of thoughts in others’ minds; rather, he could sense that their notice and concentration lingered where their eyes did not.

 

Also, there was speculation on what a Vulcan could be doing on the base in the first place, and why he would have come alone to this club. None of the speculation seemed malicious; he was simply a rare sight. Several other patrons nodded at him where he sat on a stool at the bar with a glass of _yon-savaas_ juice, but none approached him. The respect for privacy ran too high here to allow them to bother him without a clear signal that he desired company. All Spock wanted was to wait out his allotted leave time and then beam back to the ship.

 

About an hour after Spock arrived, an instrumental quartet set up in a far corner of the bar area and began to play soft, relaxing music. More patrons migrated in to listen, which was how Spock found himself seated beside a Betazoid male. Spock was not sure how it came about precisely, but they ended up speaking at length about warp theory. In no time at all, Spock was telling the man about his time spent teaching at Starfleet Academy. The knowledge that the Betazoid was using his talents to steer the conversation to common topics that would hold Spock’s interest bothered him less than it should have. To Vulcan sensibilities, this was a breach of etiquette at best for the use of telepathy, and an invasion or attack at worst. But Betazoids were not Vulcans, were they? Such behavior was normal for a Betazoid – a cultural difference between their species – and therefore, IDIC applied. Spock elected to honor that rather than attempt to inflict Vulcan social ideals on an alien. Their ability to interact in a peaceful and civilized manner was to be celebrated. And besides, it was…agreeable to be in close proximity to an open and welcoming mind. It seemed as if he had not felt that since his rift with Kirk.

 

Towards the end of the performance set, Spock finally began to realize why the Betazoid had taken an interest in him to begin with. Spock’s heart and respiration rates were elevated, and though he had initially attributed his slight flush to the high ambient temperature of the room, it actually arose from within. The warmth in his abdomen was not due to the presence of good, unreplicated food, but to the low hum of latent arousal. Spock was having an episode, and the Betazoid had noticed. Spock ceased speaking abruptly as this realization rushed over him.

 

“Ah.” The Betazoid – he had introduced himself as Ta’lan – smiled indulgently and set his drink on the bar. “I wasn’t sure at first. Vulcans can be very hard to read at times.”

 

Spock threw him an openly suspicious glance. “Please clarify.”

 

“I wasn’t sure if you were looking for companionship for the evening or not,” Ta’lan replied easily. He gestured as if summing up Spock’s entire existence in the sweep of one hand. “I could tell that you were…well, that _parts_ of you were looking, but as I said, Vulcans are hard to read. I understand now that you were unaware and I apologize if my interest has offended you.”

 

“You have not offended me,” Spock hurried to say. He wasn’t sure why he did it; Ta’lan had been politely preparing to leave now that he had identified his misunderstanding, but…Spock did not want him to go yet. Their conversation _had_ been stimulating, and perhaps as a fellow telepath, Ta’lan could be…instructive...pleasant company? An opportunity. “And I am not necessarily uninterested.” He felt a giddy rush of unidentifiable emotions similar to what he experienced when taking risky actions during landing party maneuvers. Excitement, wariness, fight or flight – Spock tamped them down. Such displays were unseemly.

 

Ta’lan had already settled back down onto his stool, however, and he leaned farther into Spock’s personal space this time. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help sensing some other things just now. You’re really quite new at this, aren’t you.” His gaze traveled down Spock’s body in a manner that made Spock straighten with a hint of discomfort. Other parts of him tightened in response to being so openly appraised.

 

Spock hedged, “I am unpracticed, but…” He took one last moment to consider just how illogical and out of character his actions were, and how potentially dangerous, then finished, “I am willing to learn.”

 

Things progressed surprisingly fast after that. Ta’lan insisted on paying for Spock’s drinks, and Spock allowed it as the provision of food and drink, or the purchase thereof, was a common component of courtship rituals in a majority of known species. The transient nature of this particular courtship did not affect the ritual’s relevance to the situation. After leaving the establishment, Spock followed Ta’lan down several thoroughfares until they reached the residential section of the base. Ta’lan was a local, then; this bore little on their association to each other, but it was still worth noting. If Spock was apprehensive about what he was doing, the emotion did not make itself known beyond his controls. Ta’lan led him to a small apartment situated on a street corner and surrounded by parkland. It was quiet and tasteful in its simplicity.

 

Once inside, Spock began to see the sense in being nervous even if he did not yet quite feel that way. Ta’lan’s unit was located up five flights of stairs – there was a lift, but it appeared to be out of order. He could not help analyzing the building for tactical purposes – layout, number of units, blind corners and escape routes. As soon as he realized what he was doing, Spock forced himself to stop. Ta’lan was capable of overhearing these analyses and Spock did not wish to offend him by seeming suspicious of his motives. Thus far, he had done nothing worthy of Spock’s distrust.

 

Spock entered the apartment without hesitation and took in the minor details – sparse furnishings, obviously low income but impeccably maintained and clean enough even for a Vulcan’s fastidious tendencies. Spock inwardly approved.

 

“Here,” Ta’lan said, breaking into Spock’s quiet examination of the flat. He approached slowly with one hand extended and stopped before he actually touched, his palm facing upward in silent invitation. “May I?”

 

The intent was clear both in body language and in the air about him that only another empath or a telepath would be able to sense. Spock hesitated because this undertaking was very unlike him, but he was already here and he was curious, and Ta’lan seemed an acceptable enough person. Spock turned to face him, resolute, and nodded. “You may.”

 

Ta’lan smiled suggestively and stepped into Spock’s personal space, his hand cutting a straight path to cupping Spock’s jaw. “You are very young, Spock. I can sense that.”

 

Spock swallowed and pressed eagerly into the hand. He could almost feel the amorphous shape of Ta’lan’s mind reaching out to pluck at his own. The craving that Spock felt to allow him access frightened him with its strength. “I would prefer if you refrained from overt probing of my thoughts or emotions.” He gave several small, successive flinches as Ta’lan’s hand skimmed down the tendons in his neck and around to cup the base of his skull. This was nothing like the one time that Jim had touched him thus. Jim’s touch had been noninvasive and warm.

 

“I’ll try not to be too forceful about it,” Ta’lan replied, but…that was not an agreement, merely a statement that he would not be obvious about what he was doing. “I can smell your interest,” he breathed abruptly, referring to the somewhat unique scent of male Vulcan pheromones that had infiltrated the air around them.

 

Spock could smell it himself; it tasted thick on his tongue and left a residue behind in the back of his throat. Curious that he had not noticed it before, in the sparring room with Jim. Perhaps it had been more subtle then, as he had felt ill rather than excited. “Is it pleasing to you?” Spock wasn’t trying to be coy; he was genuinely curious to know the answer. To his mind, the scent of his own arousal was rather off-putting.

 

Ta’lan’s face broke in a wide smile. The expression seemed to have predatory overtones. “It is extremely pleasing to me.” As if to prove this, he ducked his face in toward Spock’s neck and inhaled. “Mmm. You are a rare treat.”

 

Spock inhaled sharply as he was tugged forward by the hand at the back of his head, gentle though it was. He felt doused in a sharp want that permeated the air around them; the sensation made him want to...to move and rub and give in, and this alarmed him.

 

“Shh…” Ta’lan lifted his other hand, fingers paired in the Vulcan way, and traced them over Spock’s lips. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”

 

The caress made Spock shudder, but it didn’t really feel all that pleasant. He chose not to return the gesture. That heat in his belly had turned sharper, almost bitter. He closed his eyes momentarily, seeking out the reason for this, but could find no aberration in his own physical processes.

 

“You’re thinking too much about it,” Ta’lan told him, his voice sharper now than it had been. “Just relax.” He left off running his fingers over Spock’s face and instead rubbed gently at Spock’s chest before slipping that arm around his waist. “Close your eyes, Spock. Let me make you feel good.”

 

Spock did as instructed. It was only logical. He had followed Ta’lan here for this express purpose, even though now, he began to seriously question the wisdom of this endeavor. It was long past time for doubt, however, and as Ta’lan was the experienced party, Spock should follow his lead. Cool lips began to press and nip along Spock’s jaw, dipping down to his throat, and Spock tensed. This was not something a Vulcan would normally allow; biting was a threatening gesture –one meant to indicate dominance. Vulcan males were still occasionally known to become violent over issues of dominance. Or over possession of a mate.

 

Ta’lan must have sensed Spock’s sudden apprehension, not to mention feeling him stiffen, and left off nibbling at him. He pressed closer, aligning their bodies from shoulders to knees. His hands slipped up beneath the hem of Spock’s shirt and he began to systematically press his fingers at intervals along the knobs of Spock’s spine. It was pleasant; Spock’s nerves began to tingle in response.

 

A chuckle roused Spock from a pleasant haze that he had been unaware of falling prey to. “Zenoanatomy is a hobby of mine. Most species have pressure points and nerve clusters that can be stimulated mentally by a sexual partner to release certain neurochemicals into the bloodstream.” He massaged gently at the base of Spock’s skull and Spock tipped his head back to gain more of the sensation. “Are you enjoying it?”

 

Spock blinked and swallowed sluggishly. “Yes,” he responded. He felt drowsy and relaxed, almost drunk, and found it difficult to recall why this might be a bad idea. Tentative, Spock slipped his arms around Ta’lan’s back, as he had done with Jim in the sparring room, and dug his fingertips into the soft divots beneath Ta’lan’s shoulder blades. The pads of his fingers tingled at the friction of warm skin. His respirations turned ragged and shallow as he fought to keep his eyes open. A curious, billowing sort of heat had started to coil in his groin and lower back. He could not be certain as to whether this sensation were pleasurable or not, but it made his knees feel pleasantly weak, and his lungs caught on the tattered edges of each inhalation.

 

“Yes,” Ta’lan hissed. He clutched Spock closer and tongued along his ear, which sent Spock into tiny paroxysms. “Is that good too?”

 

His breath gusted over Spock’s moistened ear tip, wrenching a sudden moan from Spock’s lips. Surely, he must have already sensed the answer to that, but if he required verbal confirmation, so be it. With some difficulty, Spock replied, “That is acceptable.” The burning in his abdomen ignited. It felt like a pressure stuck aching low in his gut, and it was starting to make him feel nauseous. Spock told himself that it was normal, and that it would pass even as he caught a hint of the taste of copper in the back of his throat.

 

In the mean time, Ta’lan had finished with Spock’s ear and was pulling him toward the sofa that Spock had inventoried upon arrival. Their legs bumped into it sooner than Spock expected, and he allowed Ta’lan to turn him around. “Put your hands here,” he instructed, guiding Spock by the wrists to hold onto the back of the couch.

 

Spock obediently grasped the rough fabric, but he twisted around so that he could look at Ta’lan. “What do you intend to do?”

 

Ta’lan smiled, and the expression was somehow less friendly and open than it had been at the bar. “You’ll see. Eyes forward.”

 

Once Spock faced away again, Ta’lan grasped him by the hips and rubbed his thumbs along the waistband of Spock’s pants. Spock startled at that; he had expected less overtly sexual intimacy this early in the encounter. Then Ta’lan’s thumbs met in the center of his back and pushed upward past his coccyx.

 

Spock jumped but Ta’lan anticipated this reaction and followed him as he shied closer to the back of the couch. “Relax, my young Vulcan.” He leaned closer and covered Spock’s back with his chest, thumbs still pressed to Spock’s chenesi, stimulating and massaging them into a more active state and releasing a flood of Vulcan hormones and pheromones in the process. Ta’lan inhaled deeply, openly relishing the scent of it, and murmured, “Trust me.”

 

There was something downright predatory in both Ta’lan’s words and the aura he gave off, but Spock was too busy shivering and jerking as talented thumbs stimulated his lower back. He arched his spine but twitched in discomfort as Ta’lan’s soft laugh washed over him. They were rocking gently in time with each dig of Ta’lan’s thumbs, but it was…uncomfortable. There was pleasure, of course there was, but Spock didn’t like the way it was making him feel – as if his control were about to shatter and no one would catch him when he fell at the loss of it. Why had he come here? It had seemed like a good idea at the bar, had it not? Or had he been influenced telepathically? His shields had not been as strong as they should have been, and Ta’lan had read him with ease the entire time they had been talking. For all Spock knew, the Betazoid could have been doing more than just steering the conversation. But surely, no civilized being would take advantage like that? Especially not an empath. Any discomfort on Spock’s part would negatively affect his partner.

 

Spock could sense hunger from Ta’lan, and it worked on him like a bucket of cold water. Regardless of how Ta’lan had convinced him to come here, Spock had made the decision himself, but that did not mean that he had further choice in the matter. It was true that he lacked experience and perspective in sexual matters, but he was pretty sure that he did not want this to progress any further, not with a strange alien on forced shore leave. This could turn out to be a highly pleasurable experience, but Spock had no obligation to see it through, and he owed Ta'lan nothing but what he chose to give. And he did not want to give this.

 

“Wait,” Spock groaned as the flush stole over him in a wave of prickling heat. He gripped the couch as tightly as he could because at least it provided a balance point, and the stimulation had sent him up on his toes at some point. Pleasure crackled up his spine and then dropped to join that sharp, pitted heat that rested beneath his navel. It ached somewhere deep inside of him, and he didn’t like it – it felt wrong and intrusive. “Wait!”

 

Ta’lan stopped massaging his chenesi, but he remained pressed to Spock’s back. Rather than letting go, he encircled Spock’s chest and waist with both arms, molding them closer. More of that uncomfortable hunger bled over via this contact and Spock jerked in an ineffectual bid to get away from it.

 

“No, no, no,” Ta’lan crooned, into his ear. A moment later, he shushed Spock again and resumed nibbling the sensitive shell of cartilage until the nerves felt raw from overstimulation.

 

Spock squirmed and tried to pry Ta’lan’s arms away, to little avail; the majority of his focus had been diverted to the overwhelming feel of someone else’s physical sensations pressing against his own nervous system. Ta’lan was highly aroused, and the mental emanations stabbed at Spock like a physical sensation. It was making him feel sick again.

 

“Calm down,” Ta’lan soothed. He skimmed the backs of his knuckles over Spock’s cheek and Spock flung his head away. Ta’lan rubbed his collar bones instead, his other arm tightening around Spock’s waist. “Just calm down, Spock. I know how to make this good for you, if you’ll let me.”

 

“I do not w-wish to continue,” Spock replied. He was breathing too quickly and he knew that he was in danger of hyperventilating, but every time a new sensation hit him, he lost the tenuous threads of his control over that process. He also realized that the manner in which he continued to move in counterpoint to Ta’lan’s caresses could be misleading, but he seemed unable to control those responses as well, and he _wanted_ to stop.

 

“Everyone gets nervous their first time,” Ta’lan informed him, and now there was impatience bleeding through the hunger and arousal.

 

Control, Spock needed control but he couldn’t seem to find it; there was too much going on outside of him. It was instinctive for a Vulcan to seek distance and solitude when telepathically overwhelmed. Spock could clearly recall being a child and being hustled out of his father’s way after one of Sybok’s outbursts had pierced Sarek’s shielding. He himself had never been so affected by the emotionality or the loudness of the minds around him, as long as no one touched him, but now there was concentrated contact and deliberate intrusion by a telepath with chaotic and disruptive mental patterns. Their minds were not complimentary, they were not compatible, and it needed to stop – he needed to make it stop.

 

Spock had no idea he had lashed out until he was stumbling and grasping for the door panel. Behind him, Ta’lan cursed and picked himself up off the floor, brushing broken trinkets from his clothes. It was cowardly to run, and illogical. Spock was a Vulcan; he possessed twice the Betazoid’s physical strength, and under ideal conditions, was the stronger mentally as well. Plus, he had now assaulted a civilian and caused property damage – the shelves behind Ta’lan were broken from where Spock had hurled him into them. There would be repercussions for fleeing the scene of a crime.

 

Ta’lan had regained his feet by the time all of these thoughts completed their whirl through Spock’s head. Residual hunger hovered in an ethereal cloud around him, colored like starvation, which was not logical but was nonetheless true. Ta’lan was angry and he knew things about this situation that Spock did not. Spock’s control had been compromised – he had been at least momentarily overpowered, and it reasoned that Ta’lan could accomplish this again. Every corner of Spock’s hind brain screamed at him to get away and find a safe, dark place – he should not be here – bad things would happen if he remained. It was not an emotional response, not fear, but a primitive survival instinct. There was a man approaching him who could reach into his thoughts and render him docile with a touch, who could manipulate and influence him, and who was now very, very angry at being denied.

 

Spock clawed at the door controls until the panel slid aside, and fled.

 

* * * * *

 

His time sense had failed him. Dawn was breaking and Spock would have been missed on the Enterprise by now. He had also lost his bearings and seemed to be wandering at random through a semi industrial district. Several people ambled past him on the street and Spock cringed at the thought of allowing any of them close enough to ask for directions back to the base. His nerves still felt raw and there were stark grey whispers of wants and thoughts and intents left over from Ta’lan as if they had been shoved under his skin and left to fester. Several times, he actually had to stop himself from scratching at his arms and the backs of his hands to get them out. He did not know what had happened to his communicator, only that he did not have it, and using a public terminal would have necessitated going into a crowded building and interacting with people. At least he had not yet been physically ill, though he suspected that this was a near thing as the tumbling burn in his gut had shifted to something far more insidious as he walked.

 

A ground car slowed next to him and kept pace for a few moments, nearly silent on anti-grav propulsion engines. Spock registered its presence in his periphery, kept walking, and then abruptly stopped to face it. The call letters of local law enforcement glittered along the side panel in Federation Standard as well as in Common Vulcan script and Official Andorian characters. Spock wondered if this was what Kirk had once referred to as ‘the sinking feeling’ one experienced upon knowing that they would soon be caught.

 

An older man leaned out of the car’s window and eyed him for a moment, assessing. He seemed ‘on the level,’ as Jim would say. “You wouldn’t happen to be Commander Spock, would you?”

 

Spock nodded, resolved to face the consequences of his crimes with dignity, but when the officer opened his door and stepped onto the sidewalk, Spock scuttled backward without conscious intent.

 

“Whoa.” The officer held his hands up and out in a gesture meant to imply that he was not threatening.

 

But he _was_ threatening – he had emotions and thoughts and Spock could feel the trickle of them reaching across the pavement like creeping, grasping things – “Desist!”

 

The officer hooked his thumbs into his belt and leaned back against the side of his vehicle. “No one’s gonna touch you, sir. I’ve been looking for you all night, you know. The other tenants called in an altercation, said they saw somebody run off. It took some doing, but Ta’lan told me what happened eventually.” He paused and tilted his head at Spock, who was now backed against the durasteel wall of a building. “Do you need a medic?”

 

Spock laced his hands together and stared at them for a moment as if they had just grown into being a few moments before. He shoved his knuckles against his lips, then dropped them again to answer, “No.” If this man was not going to detain him, then he need not remain. Spock shoved away from the building and resumed walking.

 

“Commander.”

 

Spock halted at the tone, the obedience ingrained even though this man was not a member of Starfleet.

 

“You’re going the wrong way, sir.”

 

Spock blinked a few times and then turned around, only to be brought up short when he noticed that the officer had started following him and was now blocking his path. “Excuse me,” Spock said, and waited for the man to move.

 

“Let me give you a lift,” the officer offered, still planted firmly in Spock’s path. “You won’t make your rendezvous before departure if you walk back.”

 

Spock squinted. The rising sun was brighter than what he had become accustomed to, serving on a starship. And this man was concerned. It radiated from him the same way that heat did from the pavement stones. He swallowed and finally made an effort at eye contact. “I will pay for the damage I caused. There were broken…ornaments and…glass things. I will replace them.”

 

The officer looked away to contain some emotional reaction. When he met Spock’s eyes again, he was composed and once again calm in his open concern. It washed over Spock in a warm, soothing wave. He must have had experience in dealing with telepaths, to be able to project so well. “You aren’t being charged with a crime, Commander. I just want to be sure you make it home safe. Your captain is mighty worried about you.”

 

“Jim?” Spock studied the officer, searching for tells, and it seemed that the man understood this because he allowed the intrusion. If Spock had wanted to, he could have taken surface thoughts even without touching him; the officer had left himself open. Spock did not accept the invitation. It would have been unethical, and the officer’s willingness was proof enough of his good intentions. “I will accompany you.”

 

Relief invaded the space between them. Spock stepped back from it and then hugged himself as if he could hold that relatively harmless emotion in as a balm against the ones Ta’lan had left behind. He allowed himself to be herded into the police vehicle, scrunched up against the door to maintain what physical distance he could, and stared unseeing out the window while the officer drove. He should have been concerned by his own complacency, but he was too exhausted and sick to his stomach, and he still hadn’t found a dark place to recover in. He was shivering but not from cold; he accepted the blanket the officer offered anyway and curled around it in the passenger seat. It smelled of nothing at all. Spock pressed his face into it and let the darkness come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of dub-con in the middle, and then towards the end is definite dub-con/coercion/disturbing/attempted assault - triggery.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

 

“…didn’t want to move him or anything. He seemed pretty shaken up.”

 

Spock listened to the voices drawing nearer, aware that he was still inside the police vehicle, ensconced in the warmth of environmental controls, the sounds outside muted by paneling and the hiss of recycled air.

 

“Christ.” That was Doctor McCoy. “Yeah, he’s ours.”

 

Another voice made its way to Spock’s ears, this one closer to the paneled window that Spock was curled under. He could feel the shadow cast by his body. “What is he being charged with?” Jim. He sounded angry; his voice was hard and sharp like chipped stone. The imagery conjured up by Spock’s mind made no sense even in colloquial terms. No matter.

 

The officer made an exasperated sound. “We’re not charging him with anything, sir. He’s not the one in the wrong.”

 

“Move your sorry ass.” From the sound of it, McCoy was elbowing Jim out of the way. “He’s got some bruises, looks like. Has he seen a medic?”

 

“He said he didn’t need one.”

 

“Well, of course he _said_ that; he’s a Vulcan!”

 

“Bones.”

 

McCoy grumbled but subsided.

 

“Captain, Doctor. We got a report of a domestic disturbance late last night. Seems one of our locals convinced him to go back to his flat. Things got out of hand. I found him wandering down in the warehouse district; he’d gotten lost.”

 

Rage. Jim was furious. Spock flinched and turned farther into the blanket. “Explain.”

 

“Jim, relax.” McCoy was scanning him; Spock could hear the warbling of the feinberger. “Spock’s fine. Nothing a spot of sleep and a dermal regenerator won’t fix right up.”

 

The officer who had found him seemed to think that something about this was amusing. “Ta’lan’s got sort of a reputation. Obviously, he was too stupid to realize he’s no match for a Vulcan.”

 

“Oh?” Jim asked. “And where is this…Ta’lan?” Barely concealed malevolence. For some reason, Spock basked in that one. It wasn’t directed anywhere near him, and yet it was _for_ him. It felt good.

 

“Hospital,” the officer replied with an unmistakable note of satisfaction. “Couple of cracked ribs, a few bruised internal organs, and multiple lacerations obtained when your officer threw him into a glass shelving unit.”

 

McCoy chuckled. “Good for him.”

 

“Can’t say I’m sorry about it,” the officer agreed. “You gentlemen can take him home whenever you like. You should be careful, though; he was in shock when I found him. Mentally, I think. Ta’lan’s a Betazoid. He’s been known to use his telepathy to…persuade, shall we say, otherwise reluctant partners.”

 

A pause ensued. Spock’s ears rang with silence and all of the thoughts unspoken through it. Then Jim said, “Are you implying… You are.”

 

“He just pushes at people. Like if somebody’s on the fence about going off with him and all they need is a bit of a nudge. It’s unethical, but in the strictest sense, it’s not illegal behavior for a telepath.”

 

Jim’s anger was palpable, a wave of needles and red and foul smelling things. “Not illegal? It’s _not_ illegal to trick people into – ”

 

“Jim.” McCoy’s voice came as a calm warning. “It’s not a trick; it’s natural behavior for telepaths interacting with each other. Spock still made that decision himself – his brainwave patterns aren’t showing any evidence of tampering. Ta’lan just…well, made himself more desirable, I guess you could say. Like a pretty girl putting on makeup and a slinky dress to better showcase her assets. It’s misleading sometimes, but it’s not a trick.”

 

“And in the end, nothing actually happened, physically,” the officer assured them, his voice considerate in its softness. “I’ve got a scanner in the car; I made sure of that. He didn’t want me to get too close to him, though. Practically welded himself to the door panel once we were both in.”

 

McCoy grunted. “That’s normal for a telepath in this sort of situation, touch or otherwise.”

 

“That’s what I figured. It’s also why I didn’t take him to hospital. Didn’t think he’d do too well with the crowd and a bunch of strangers poking at him.”

 

“Of course,” Jim interjected smoothly. Spock could hear the painted-on smile in his voice. “Please allow me to extend my gratitude for looking after him. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

 

“It wasn’t a problem, sir,” the officer countered. “Just so you know, your Spock didn’t seem to want to press charges for the assault. Maybe you could talk to him about that? I’d like to be able to get Ta’lan off my base; he’s a menace.”

 

Curious; Spock had no recollection of such a conversation. Then again, he seemed to have lost the majority of time between climbing into the officer’s car and hearing Jim’s voice here.

 

“I’ll press the charges on his behalf,” Jim replied distractedly. “As his commanding officer, I have that right.”

 

The officer made a pleased sound. “I will pipe the forms to you immediately, Captain.”

 

Spock roused a bit at the sound of heavy, unfamiliar footsteps moving off along graveled pavement. The driver’s side door opened a moment later and he threw himself against his own door panel without really registering the futility of the gesture. Once he sensed Jim’s presence in the car with him, he calmed and lifted his head from the nest he had made on the front seat.

 

Jim was leaning into the car, one knee braced on the opposite seat, his hands gripping the door frame. He looked haggard, but he grinned in spite of it. “Hey, Spock.”

 

“Captain.” He noted uncertainty in his own voice, but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

 

“You’re late,” Jim added, the smile sliding from his face to reveal the worry beneath.

 

“I will accept any punishment you deem fit,” Spock assured him. He was certain that he made a pretty incongruous picture, huddled on a car seat while accepting a reprimand from his commanding officer.

 

Jim frowned. “This isn’t a reprimand. We were worried.”

 

“Oh.” Spock shrank back a bit, his telepathy prickling uncomfortably behind his eyes.

 

“Be honest now,” Jim said, fervent. “Do you need medical attention? For anything?”

 

Spock shook his head, hands bunching and folding into the fabric he’d twisted around himself. “I wish to return to my quarters.”

 

“Okay.” Jim watched him for a moment, tense with worry that Spock could feel pressing at his dismal shields. “Did you know that the Orions have been spotted in this sector? When you didn’t show up at the end of your rotation and we couldn’t raise your communicator, all I could think was that you’d gone and gotten yourself kidnapped. Do you have any idea what you’d be worth on the open market?” He leaned farther into the car and fixed Spock with an almost manic glare. “And just what the _fuck_ did you think you were doing, letting some sleaze pick you up in a bar?!”

 

“Jim.” McCoy grabbed at Kirk’s shoulder and hauled him out of the car. “Knock it off, you drama queen.” He shoved Jim off toward the rear of the vehicle and then leaned down to have a look at Spock himself. “You ready to come out of there, Commander?”

 

Spock looked down at himself, scrunched as he was in the car seat, and nodded. He had to untangle himself from the blanket, and then it took him a few tries to figure out the door controls on his own side of the vehicle. He ended up tumbling gracelessly to his feet on the gravel surface of the parking lot. This was a strangely primitive substance to use at an official station house. Spock folded the blanket into neat, Starfleet edges and placed it on the vehicle seat before closing the door. His balance seemed tetchy and he deemed it prudent to remain in place, his hands braced against the side of the vehicle while he waited for the world to stop spinning.

 

When Spock blinked his eyes to refocus them, he found an open hand hovering between him and the vehicle’s hull, inserted beneath his own outstretched arm. It shook minutely. Spock considered it for a moment, pink human fingers furled slightly like the legs of an insect recently killed but not crushed, then followed it up to Jim’s apologetic and hopeful face. The expression there faltered when Spock hesitated to accept the gesture, but the open hand remained. Spock looked back down at it for a few disconnected moments, then brushed the pads of his fingers over the center of Kirk’s palm. He experienced a hint of vertigo along with _so worried, tired, no sleep, had to find him, keep him safe, relief, still worried, what is he doing? wonder if he knows what I’m thinking, don’t care, get him home, get him safe again –_

Spock retracted his hand and clasped them both behind his back. His legs still felt shaky at best; he was in need of rest, and a glucose supplement. Telepathic shock of any kind depleted the blood sugar stores. Spock met Kirk’s eyes and tried to convey a smile through his gaze alone.

 

Kirk grinned and withdrew his offered hand; he did not appear to take Spock’s refusal to do more than briefly touch it as any sort of rejection. This was good; it was not Spock’s intention to discourage the captain from offering his assistance or his friendship. “Come on,” Kirk said, canting his head in what was presumably the direction of their transport site. “You look beat.”

 

Spock frowned and looked down at himself. He did appear rumpled, but there were hardly signs of a serious assault. Then again, perhaps a human would see something in his appearance that a Vulcan would not. They _were_ rather intuitive creatures. Spock looked back up and nodded. “I am…eager to return to the ship.” _Eager_ was not quite the correct word, but he hardly wanted to admit to the almost frantic sensation crawling ephemerally about his entire body. He wanted his quarters – the low red-tinged lighting, the familiar smell of his incense, the quiet like a cave in the desert.

 

It seemed impossible, but Kirk appeared to understand far more than Spock was aware of revealing. He even seemed to know that Spock had ill-chosen the term _eager_ when expressing his desire to go home. “Of course, Commander.” He made a gesture as if to guide Spock off of the police station property by touching his back, but although his hand hovered just behind Spock’s shoulder blades, Kirk did not actually touch him. Spock could feel the warmth of him, however – the hand like a presence that he could sense behind him. It was…nice. It was an acceptable interaction with the captain.

 

It made him feel safe.

 

* * * * *

 

“Okay,” McCoy announced, apropos of nothing in the wake of rematerialization. “You. Sickbay.” He waved at Spock to precede him off of the transporter pad. “Jim, you coming?”

 

“I’ll follow you in a minute, Doctor.”

 

“Oh, so it’s _Doctor_ now, is it?” McCoy grumbled. They must have had a disagreement during Spock’s absence. McCoy’s tone was borderline insubordinate, but since he always spoke that way, both Spock and the captain ignored it. “Come on, Spock.”

 

Spock started; he had not been aware that he was staring at Jim or that McCoy had passed him up. Uncertain of his own equilibrium, Spock turned and joined McCoy in the corridor, where he was waiting with his arms crossed, bouncing on his heels with impatience. Spock wished, illogically, that Jim would at least look at him before the doors closed, but he didn’t. It disturbed and shamed him to know that the emotion radiating off of Jim right now was disgust.

 

Spock kept his eyes trained on the deck plates and obediently followed McCoy to sickbay. If McCoy were perturbed by his docility, he did not show it in either posture or words. Spock let himself be led into a private cubicle, and after McCoy had secured the privacy codes, Spock stripped down to his briefs without needing to be told. It was only then that he noticed how many marks peppered his skin, and he wondered why he had not felt the injuries before then. Without conscious thought, Spock fit his hand over the array of fingertip bruises crossing his right hip and depressed the skin there to make it pale. Had Ta’lan truly gripped him that hard?

 

McCoy heaved a sigh on his way to the instrument tray in the corner. “Heavens alive, Spock. I will never order you to take shore leave against your will again.”

 

Spock glanced up at him, dropping his wandering hand back to his side, and then looked into the mirror above the sink in the corner of the room. He watched his own eyebrow climb as he took in the sight of bruises along his neck and throat no doubt caused by the sucking and biting kisses that Ta’lan had bestowed upon him. There was also a muddy orange contusion over one cheekbone, fading to a softer green at the edges, probably acquired when he had broken Ta’lan’s hold and tripped on his way to the door. A fine buzz like ultrasonics continued to course through his muscles and nervous system; he was certain that McCoy would feel the vibration of it, were he to touch Spock. Spock hoped he did not attempt to do so.

 

“Here.” McCoy held a hypospray out and Spock automatically closed his fingers over it. “Glucose. I figured you’d prefer to dose yourself.”

 

Spock nodded, absent in a cold fashion, and stated, “Jim is angry with me.” He wasn’t sure why he bothered saying it out loud. Belatedly, he recalled the hypospray he was holding and administered it. A measure of the nausea and shakiness dispersed, and Spock set the used hypospray down on the tray.

 

“Jim is angry in general, not at you,” McCoy countered. He waved a hand in front of Spock’s face to regain his attention, and steered him back to the biobed via the mere threat of physical contact. “One of his officers was in trouble, and he wasn’t there to stop bad things from happening. He feels guilty right now. Helpless. And that makes him angry.”

 

“He feels disgust,” Spock argued, his eyes absently tracking the progress of McCoy’s hands as he waved a dermal regenerator over Spock’s hip.

 

“Yeah, well.” McCoy exhaled in a slow, measured slide. “Spock, you wanna tell me what in blazes you were thinking last night?”

 

Spock stiffened minutely and brought his battered controls to bear. “I engaged in a pastime common to many members of this crew. I do not see why I should be disallowed when others – ”

 

“I’m not disallowing anything, Spock. But that sort of thing isn’t like you. It showed poor impulse control and a lack of judgment that is frankly unheard of for you. Hell, you’re the one who gives the safety lectures before every shore leave – you _know_ better.” McCoy finished at Spock’s hip and moved his instruments up to the marks on Spock’s clavicle. “I’m worried, Spock. You’ve never done anything like that before, and you just…” McCoy switched off the dermal regenerator and let his hands fall so that he could look Spock in the eye. “You don’t know how to do that sort of thing safely – troll for company at a bar – and I can’t help thinking that next time, you’re gonna end up seriously hurt.” He took a step closer, forcing Spock to lift his head to maintain eye contact. “You know, we actually did think you’d been taken by Orions at first. We scanned the area around the base and found four warp signatures that matched the configurations for slaver ships. Do you have _any_ idea how terrified we were? Here we’d all been out drinkin’ and carousin’ and havin’ a grand ol’ time, oblivious, while some damn pirate was puttin’ his hands – ” He cut himself off and stepped away in what Spock took to be a bid to maintain his composure. “Jesus, Spock. We’d have never been able to forgive ourselves. You know that, right?”

 

Spock lowered his eyes, aware that he felt chastised and disappointed with his own behavior. McCoy did not usually evoke those emotions in him. It seemed counterproductive and unwise at this juncture to reveal the true reasons he had gone along with Ta’lan’s suggestions, but honesty could not be faulted, and he could learn from McCoy’s experience in these matters. “I was curious,” he confessed. “And…defiant, I believe is the correct term. I saw no reason to shun his offer, as others in my place would certainly have accepted it and been glad of it.”

 

McCoy gave him a hard look and then demanded, his voice a deceptively smooth drawl, “Are you tellin’ me that you wanted to have sex with that cretin because you thought it would make you look cool in front of the other kids on the playground?”

 

The sudden hostility in McCoy’s aura made Spock shrink back. He had too recently been subjected to the violent emotions of another to prevent his own withdrawal now. “Your interpretation is needlessly colloquial.” He didn’t deny it, though, because he wasn’t sure if he honestly could. Aware of his own inadequacy in emotional matters, Spock floundered for a better explanation. “I was…interested at first. As you said, I have no experience in such pursuits.”

 

“And it didn’t strike you that maybe going off base with a stranger, when nobody knows where the hell you are to begin with, might be a bad idea?”

 

“It ‘struck’ me,” Spock confessed softly. “But my apprehension was an emotional response, and therefore not pertinent to the issue. I had logically deemed him an acceptable partner for this endeavor.”

 

McCoy groaned and rolled his eyes theatrically. “Angels and saints preserve us from the logic of Vulcans.” He switched the dermal regenerator back on and jabbed it against Spock’s arm to make him move it out of the way. “One of these days, you’re gonna realize that emotions aren’t dirty, rotten contaminants. You have them for a reason, and when they start tellin’ you that goin’ off alone with some smarmy alien is a bad idea, you should listen to them.”

 

Spock controlled his outward signs of resentment, but could not banish the feeling altogether. “I find your hypocrisy distasteful. Humans engage in that type of behavior with appalling regularity. I do not see why I should be held to a different standard.”

 

“It’s not a different standard, Spock; you’re just too ornery to see that.” Under his breath, McCoy muttered, “Damn horny Vulcan. There.” McCoy finished erasing the last of the bruises and set aside his instruments. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before lettin’ your dick do all the talkin’.”

 

Spock bristled. “If that is all, Doctor?”

 

“Your neuroscans look like somebody jabbed a whisk in your ear and had at it.”

 

Spock had no idea what that meant. “I will correct any aberrations through meditation.”

 

“Fine,” McCoy barked, more aggravated than Spock thought necessary, given their interaction to this point. He stalked over to the wash basin, but tossed back, “I’m pulling you off duty for the next twenty-four hours, and I want you in here before you go back on shift so that I can clear you. Furthermore, you will undergo psychiatric evaluation and will submit to a psych-scan to confirm that this incident is not likely to repeat itself, or you will be removed from active duty for the foreseeable future. Understood?”

 

“Affirmative.” Spock glared across the room at McCoy’s back.

 

“I hope you’ve noticed how moody you are right now.”

 

Spock shut his eyes momentarily, forced himself to inhale slowly through his nose, and then looked at McCoy again. “If you would release me to my quarters, I would be able to rectify that.”

 

McCoy turned around, his hands wrapped in the towel he was drying them on, and shook his head as if Spock had let him down somehow. When he spoke, it was more of a sigh than anything else. “I’m not holding you here. If you want to go, then go.”

 

Curiously, McCoy’s expression unsettled him to the point where his impatience and aggravation evaporated. Spock was clearly more compromised than he had realized, and from McCoy’s behavior, he seemed to know this as well.

 

McCoy set the towel aside a took a few steps closer. “Alright. Go on; out with it.”

 

Spock bit his lip, realized his slip the moment the sting served to ground him, and then said, “I believe that perhaps the chief motivator in my decision was something more along the lines of spite than defiance.”

 

A few moments ticked by in silence, and then McCoy let out a weary breath. “You’re a real piece of work, Spock.”

 

“So I have been told.” By geneticists, mostly. And by his mother, to the exact opposite purpose. Spock would have responded further, but the intercom crackled to life, putting an end to their conversation by announcing that the captain had arrived.

 

McCoy punched the line open and snapped, “Tell him to hold his damn horses. I’m on my way.” After closing the line, he told Spock, “Don’t leave this room; we’re not finished.”

 

“Yes, Doctor.”

 

Spock pulled his pants back on, and then his thermal shirt, but he ended up staring at the Vulcan-cut tunic that was supposed to go on over that – a knee-length garment that his mother had given him as semi-formal wear during his tenure at Starfleet Academy. Spock had not seen her in person after leaving for Starfleet Academy, not until…he would not think of that here. But she had written to him often and sent him what she called ‘care packages’ containing various luxury items and foods not easily obtained on Earth. This tunic had arrived two months and four days after her death. The package had been delayed in transit by the extra security measures taken in the wake of Nero’s attack. Spock had not had an opportunity to wear it until last night. For some reason, he suspected that he may have dishonored her memory by wearing it during an attempt to procure sexual intercourse, whether that had been his original intent during shore leave or not. How disappointed would she have been at his conduct? A moment’s consideration led Spock to conclude that she would not have been disappointed at all, only worried for him. That was worse.

 

Voices drew Spock’s attention to the traffic in the corridor outside his cubicle. He turned away, determined not to eavesdrop until he heard McCoy say, “I sent him back to his quarters to recoup.”

 

Spock perked to attention at the lie and shuffled further out of sight beside the door jamb. In the hallway, Jim asked, “Is he really okay? He was acting weird.”

 

“There’s some telepathic shock mixed into the equation, but believe me – Spock’s fine. He’s confused and a bit…well, emotional, but it’ll pass once he spends some time doing his voodoo brain thing.”

 

Jim snorted. “Is that a technical term?”

 

“Of course. I altered the medical database to prove it.”

 

Spock lowered his brows and made a mental note to check the medical library files for tampering. He could not preclude the possibility that McCoy would actually do such a thing.

 

“And that guy – the Betazoid. He didn’t…you know…did he? Bones?”

 

“Spock’s fine, Jim. It didn’t get that far. He’s just a bit shaken up.”

 

The sound of Jim breathing was audible even from where Spock stood in the next room. “Okay. That’s good. Because I kind of like being a captain, and I don’t think Chris would let me keep the ship if I went off and murdered a guy in a hospital bed.”

 

“Oh, I’m pretty the entire bridge staff would alibi you.”

 

“God, the scene I made.” Kirk sighed and could be heard shuffling about as if he had found something to lean against. “I’m surprised nobody tried to relieve me of duty.”

 

“I’m not. There wasn’t a soul up there who didn’t agree with every threat you made. Jim.” McCoy’s voice had dropped and shifted to something more intimate. “Look. This could have a been a lot worse, and Spock’s a genius, but he doesn’t understand that. Somebody has got to talk to him.”

 

“Bones…” Jim’s tone seemed crafted as a warning to stand down.

 

“I know why you don’t think it should be you. But Jim, you have to realize that Vulcans don’t open up to just anyone. Privacy is practically a religion to them. If he wants to talk to you about it, it’s because he doesn’t feel threatened by you.”

 

“Well, maybe he should!”

 

McCoy let out an exasperated huff. “In human terms, you might have half a point. _Only_ half, and only on the fifth Tuesday of every month. But Spock’s Vulcan – no, don’t interrupt me! Genetically speaking, he’s only seventeen percent human. Culturally, and for the most part biologically as well, he’s Vulcan. And in Vulcan terms, wanting you to show this stuff to him is perfectly natural.”

 

“Wait, wait, whoa – _show_ him?! What the hell – you said _talk_ , not show! He’s my friend!”

 

“Yeah, the Vulcan definition of that kind of relationship is pretty different from ours.”

 

“Oh, don’t give me that lost-in-translation crap. He said I was the next best thing to an older male family member. A brother, Bones. Not a…an I don’t even know what. I _told_  you that.”

 

“Brother,” McCoy muttered. At normal volume, he said, “Jim, did you know that the typical Vulcan male doesn’t engage in penetrative intercourse _at all_ until his first rut cycle? Technically, they _can’t_ because they are, physiologically speaking, still sexually immature – they are incapable of attaining a state of physical arousal sufficient for achieving an erection. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t experiment the same way that human teenagers do. They do this thing with their fingers, for instance.”

 

McCoy must have offered some sort of demonstration or explanatory gesture, because Jim spluttered, “Bones!” as if he had just been exposed to some kind of shocking and indecent display.

 

“Oh, please; stop being a prude,” McCoy scoffed. “It’s makes you look constipated. Now, Vulcans: they bond as children so that by the time they start to mature and show interest, there’s someone available to mess around with. It’s natural for them – they’re monogamous, and they mate for life on instinct – it’s not convenience, it’s a matter of _survival_ for them since failure to have a bonded mate during the rut will prove fatal. Because of that, evolutionarily speaking, the Vulcan male is in many ways unstable outside of a healthy mating bond.”

 

“What makes you think I came here for a biology lesson?”

 

“This is sickbay; I extrapolated. Spock’s unbonded right now, on top of everything else he’s going through. That makes him biologically more volatile and more prone to emotional outbursts and atypical behavior than his bonded counterparts.”

 

“Where did you learn all of this? None of it’s in the medical computer – I’ve checked.”

 

“M’Benga talked what’s left of the Vulcan High Council into releasing more detailed information on Vulcan medical care in light of recent events. For Spock, the procurement of a suitable mate is an urgent, sometimes overriding biological imperative. He’s not a child, and even though he’s probably got years yet until his first rut, his body knows that it needs the stability of a reliable mate. Since he lost the one his clan got for him, he’s got to find a new one all by his lonesome; his instincts are all geared toward working out what that means – what a suitable mate would constitute for him – and finding it.”

 

“Wait, _rut_? Like, he goes into man-heat?”

 

“Shut the hell up, you damn infant. And don’t call it man-heat. If he’s approached you for instruction, if he’s allowed you to touch him in any kind of a sexual manner…” McCoy trailed off as if awaiting some form of non-verbal confirmation. “See, right. So he has. That means that he’s already sensed an inherent compatibility. Maybe what he’s doing isn’t a conscious activity, but on some level, he’s evaluating you as a potential mate.” McCoy paused. “He’s courting you, Jim. He even admitted that part of his motivation for taking that asshole up on his offer was spite. He asked me why he should be disallowed from pursuing sexual interests when everyone else on board is completely unhindered.”

 

“Fine, yes, I get that, okay? Very human. But he put me in the same category as ‘elder male family members’ and ‘bonded brothers.’ _Brother_ , Bones. You don’t teach your brother how to – how to _fuck_ via hands-on experience.”

 

McCoy mumbled something incomprehensible, muffled perhaps by a hand. “Jim, when he said ‘bonded brother’ to you, what word did he use?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re getting at. He said _brother_. That’s not ambiguous.”

 

His tone long-suffering – much as it normally was when speaking to Spock rather than to the captain – McCoy growled, “Did he say it in Terran Standard, or is that just the word you got from the translator implant?”

 

A pause ensued, and then Kirk asked, the syllable low and drawn out, “Why?”

 

“Because in Vulcan, a ‘bonded brother’ is not a family member, Jim. It’s a male lover.” McCoy stopped to allow that to sink in, or perhaps to allow for a counterargument. When no response was forthcoming, he continued, “What Spock’s doing, the way he’s behaving – it’s natural for him. He needs to be bonded. I know you see him as some kind of big, innocent kid when it comes to sex, and that it turns you off, but that’s a human response. If you were a Vulcan, male _or_ female, and you enjoyed the kind of close relationship with an unbonded male that you have with Spock, it would be expected that Spock would cleave to you, that he’d start to become aroused by you – that he’d eventually _want_ you.”

 

Spock swallowed and looked down. He had honestly not thought to interpret his situation as McCoy had just laid it out. He _should_ have. The Doctor’s explanation made such perfect sense that Spock wondered how he could have missed it himself. When he and McCoy had spoken the day of the sparring incident, Spock had only asked that he contact New Vulcan in his role as Spock’s Healer, and inform his father of the situation. They had discussed the matter no further than that. Perhaps McCoy had taken it for granted that Spock understood all of this? Assumed that others had sufficiently educated Spock on the subject?

 

A pause ensued, and then Jim said, “Okay, if he needs a mate to stabilize him or something, then his clan should be able to find him someone suitable, right? That’s how it works in Vulcan culture.”

 

Cloth rustled out in the corridor, and Spock imagined that McCoy was drawing closer to Jim to preserve the illusion of privacy in their conversation. Also, perhaps to convey a sense of urgency or secrecy, a common bargaining tool and persuasive tactic among humans comprised of body language alone. “Jim, no Vulcan is going to bond with him now.”

 

“What, why?” Jim demanded, angered. “Because he’s only half Vulcan, because that isn’t good enough now that they’re an endangered species? Have to keep the bloodlines pure?”

 

“Because he’s sterile,” McCoy broke in. He seemed genuinely upset by this as well. “It was one thing when there were billions of them out there. His family name counted for something, and so what if he couldn’t contribute to the next generation? He had money, resources, the prestige of his clan… Now, there are only ten thousand of them left, and two thirds of them are male. There’s a problem with numbers, get it? Normally, in any naturally-evolved population of mammals, the females outnumber the males almost two-to-one. Because of Nero, that’s no longer the case for Vulcans, and it puts a premium on breeding females of the species. It would be illogical to mate Spock with a fertile Vulcan woman – it would be a waste of the viable genetic pool since one: he can’t procreate, and two: his bonding would deny a fertile male the chance to simply survive to further the race.”

 

Jim didn’t respond right away, and then he hesitantly asked, “You actually talked to somebody? This is for real?”

 

“I contacted his father to let him know what you and Spock told me, about the cause of his episodes,” McCoy confirmed. “That’s protocol for them, culturally speaking, if we assume that I play the role of Spock’s personal Healer. Sarek told me not two weeks ago that he couldn’t find a willing mate for Spock, and that his clan’s petition to appoint a bondmate had been denied.” He paused, then added, “Shit. I haven’t even told Spock yet.”

 

Spock blinked several times and trained his gaze on the opposite wall.

 

“Sarek was pretty pissed about it; said he was gonna ‘handle things.’ Scared the bejesus outa me, to be honest. He didn’t even bother to try to hide it.”

 

“Of course, he wouldn’t,” Jim murmured, as if it were only natural that Spock’s Vulcan father should openly display anger on his son’s behalf. Then again, perhaps it _was_ natural. Spock wouldn’t know. “So, basically, the council won’t decree that somebodyhas to bond with him because it would be illogical to waste resources like that, and no Vulcan would agree of their own accord because it would be illogical to waste resources like that. That leaves me because Spock has taken an interest for some reason, and you’re, what – fine with this? You know, sometime I feel like you’re trying to play matchmaker.”

 

“Oh, fuck you, Jim. I’m a doctor, not a game show host. Look. I’m not trying to pressure you into sleeping with your F.O.; lord knows, that’s not what this is about. But if you really, honestly don’t want anything to do with him sexually, you need to make that clear to him now. He’s got a limited amount of time in which to find a mentally-compatible non-Vulcan willing to go through the hassle of living with a Vulcan mating bond _and_ who is notinterested in having kids. The less time he has to waste waiting on you to dig your head out of your ass, the better his chances. Now, figure this out before he’s too imprinted on you to be able to make a go at somebody else. If you keep stringing him along, you could literally end up being the cause of his death. You got it?”

 

Jim mumbled something unintelligible.

 

“What was that?” McCoy demanded.

 

“I said, I’m not uninterested.” Kirk sounded angry about this, and perhaps a little frightened.

 

McCoy gave a nonverbal exclamation. “Then what’s the problem?”

 

“You _know_ what the problem is,” Kirk bit out. There were too many disparate emotional indicators peppering his tone for Spock to make sense of his current emotional state. “I can’t. Bones, I… He threw up.”

 

“What? When?”

 

“The last time we sparred. When we figured out what was going on with him, remember?”

 

McCoy remained silent for several long seconds. Twenty four of them, to be precise. And then McCoy said, “So, the two of you…what, exactly? Neither one of you ever told me details, Jim. You just told me what was wrong with him.”

 

“I kissed him,” Kirk replied. He sounded as if he were providing a confession for a gallows offense, and had no problem accepting punishment for it. “And I groped him and rubbed his ear, and he got sick, and I can’t be the cause of that.”

 

There were rustles of clothing and Spock strained his ears to pick up the continuance of the conversation. “Alright, Jim,” McCoy said gently. “I didn’t realize it was like that, but I’m not really the one you need to explain that to. Spock doesn’t understand why you’re rejecting him. It’s hurting him.”

 

“I’m not rejecting him,” Kirk grumbled, irritation and embarrassment being the only two overtones that Spock could decipher amidst the jumble of Kirk’s vocal inflections. “It’s just that I can’t get that picture out of my head.”

 

“Then you need to tell him that,” McCoy insisted, his tone in earnest. “These are things he needs to know, Jim. And I think that you could benefit from it too. He’s not stupid.”

 

“I know,” Kirk snapped. “But it’s not that easy. You of all people should know that.”

 

“Jim – ” McCoy’s attempt at a response came too late; the sound of Kirk’s footsteps was already fading away, an angry and frustrated staccato retreating down the crowded corridor of deck five. Spock jumped as McCoy popped his head into the room, his expression pointed. “You can go now, Spock.”

 

Spock stared at him for a moment before inclining his head without breaking eye contact. A rather primitive part of Spock’s hindbrain seemed convinced that to do so would invite attack, as if McCoy could ever pose any true danger to him, physically. One thing was for certain: Spock would not make the mistake of underestimating either McCoy’s knowledge base or his cunning again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See specific warnings in the end notes - they are spoilery, so if you don't want spoilers, don't read. Thanks!

It took two days for Kirk to approach him after McCoy’s semi-ultimatum. Spock had honestly expected to either wait longer, or have to make the first overture himself. He wasn’t sure how he would react to another refusal on Jim’s part. There was no one else he could see himself connecting with on the ship, and he had no desire to go elsewhere to search for a mate. He wouldn’t even know how to begin. And if by some chance he did manage to find someone, bonding with them would most likely necessitate him resigning his commission. Mates needed to remain close – available to one another on short notice. Haring off on a deep space mission could leave them weeks, or even months away from each other.

 

Even without his current condition and his telepathic dependence on the crew of the Enterprise, Spock did not think he could live anywhere but on this ship, not at this point in his life. Jim was familiar to him in a way that no one else had ever been, and Spock was human enough to be able to admit that whether it shamed him as a Vulcan or not, in the wake of the destruction of his home planet, he needed the stability and support system offered by his colleagues on the Enterprise. But Spock did not want Jim to come to him out of a sense of guilt or pity or obligation. He did not want to die for lack of a mate, but he also did not think that he could survive another hostile bond. T’Pring had at least been proficient in shielding her dislike and contempt of him. With her, he had been subject only to neglect.

 

The initial overture was the offer of a chess match, which Spock accepted. Only then did Jim name the time and meeting place: 2100, in his quarters. They had not been alone together in either of their quarters for almost three months, since the moratorium on any interactions that did not constitute ‘distance’; they had been conducting their business in conference rooms and Spock’s office in the science department. Spock arrived at the appointed time to find Jim edgy and irritable, the chess board set up but the pieces still in their box. This did not seem to bode well, and Spock took his usual seat with a carefully subsumed sense of trepidation.

 

As it turned out, Jim’s invitation seemed more of a tentative offer of resumed friendship than anything else. If Spock had not possessed a nearly photographic memory, he would have been tempted to claim that he had forgotten what Kirk’s quarters looked like. As it was, Spock recalled the exact placement of every PADD, article of clothing, misplaced piece of equipment and trinket from their last chess match; he could have delivered an exact inventory of all new paraphernalia versus old, and their changes in location and orientation if applicable.

 

They played several stilted games of chess, the atmosphere between them easing only slightly as they fell into old rhythms of behavior and conversational patterns. Spock reveled in it, despite his pointed attempts to retain his Vulcan detachment. He was surrounded by Jim – by his quarters, his personal effects, the sound of his voice, his…scent. Spock had never been so aware of the way Jim’s quarters smelled – the way _Jim_ smelled. In this closed, concentrated environment, it was as if Spock were immersed in the man. At one point, he was even struck with an irrational urge to roll in it so that he could take it with him when he left. The notion disturbed him as much as it nagged at his sense of interest.

 

After a long period of marginally comfortable silence, Kirk ventured, “You seem distracted.”

 

Spock pulled his attention from the board; he had been watching Kirk tap his fingernail against the base of the tri-d board, awaiting his next turn. “I apologize. Is there a topic you wish to discuss?” He had not meant it as a leading question, and yet it served that exact purpose.

 

More surprising than anything else that evening was the fact that Kirk accepted the opening. “Actually, yes. But, um…I think it’s better discussed without distractions.”

 

“Of course.” Spock reached out to tip his king since he projected a ninety two percent probability of Kirk’s victory no matter their next moves, and settled back with his fingers laced in his lap to await further conversation.

 

Kirk tilted his head at the fallen chess piece, scowled, and then scooted his chair to the left so that he didn’t have to peer through the board to make eye contact. Illogically, once he had a direct line of sight to Spock, Kirk elected to look at his own hands. He made several attempts to begin speaking but cut himself off each time, his frustration seeming to grow at a rate inversely proportionate to the number of false starts he made.

 

Spock decided, after the seventh iteration of this behavior, that their purposes would both be better served if he broached the topic himself. The Vulcan predilection for bluntness stood him in good stead. “I have a confession to make.”

 

Kirk shut his eyes briefly as if giving silent thanks for the interruption, and then nodded at Spock to go on.

 

“I was not in my quarters when you spoke to Doctor McCoy in sickbay following my return from shore leave.”

 

Several expressions flittered across Kirk’s face before his entire affect shut down. It was fascinating and unsettling at the same time as it so closely resembled the shuttering of expression caused by the exertion of Vulcan controls. “It’s not like you to spy on your shipmates.”

 

Had Spock been anything other than Vulcan, he might have paled at the low, emotionless quality of Kirk’s voice. “I am aware of the impropriety of my actions.” He offered no excuse because it would have implied that he did not truly accept the blame for his transgression. McCoy may have set the situation in motion, but no one had forced Spock to go along with the charade and eavesdrop without his captain’s knowledge.

 

Kirk seemed to find some worth in the simple acceptance of guilt. His posture loosened and he slumped back, his eyes tracking aimlessly off to one side. “Ask your questions, Mister Spock.”

 

This gave Spock pause, as he had not expected to have to lead this discussion entirely on his own. However, if that was what Jim needed in order to divulge the secrets he held as explanation for his reticence of late, then Spock would gladly assist him as required. It was his duty both as Jim’s first officer and as his friend to lend any necessary support. “Am I to understand that your sexual interest in me has not waned?”

 

“It has not,” Kirk confirmed. He shifted uneasily in his chair and then, as if it were an afterthought, crossed one leg over the other.

 

Spock chose his words carefully, as he could recognize on an almost subconscious level that to be too bold in his questioning would cause Kirk to bolt. “Harboring this interest causes you distress.”

 

Kirk sucked in a slow, deep breath through his nose, his mouth pressed into a hard line and his eyes obscured by the hand he had raised to brace his forehead. “You already know that – I _told_ you that much in the locker room.”

 

Spock withdrew in his chair to regroup, and entertained the possibility that Jim’s discomfort might be contagious. He did not want to interrogate his captain. Knowing that he was himself somehow the cause of such a storm of emotions caused Spock to experience a very tangible form of self-disgust. Deliberately provoking emotion in others was frowned upon in Vulcan society; Jim had the right to never speak to him again for doing it.

 

Rather than press the issue, Spock abandoned the logical approach. Jim was human; he would not fault Spock for it. “I do not wish to force your confidence.”

 

“What _do_ you want, Mister Spock?”

 

The coldness of Kirk’s voice left Spock feeling more chilled than the cool air of the ship could account for. “I want to remain on the Enterprise.” It was the simplest way to express the entirety of what he desired.

 

Something in the unintentionally plaintive quality of Spock’s tone drew Kirk’s gaze back to him, his eyes slightly wider than was normal. “I would never ask you to leave. That’s not what I – ”

 

“But it is.” Spock kept his tone carefully modulated so that Kirk would not be able to tell how it very nearly wavered. In order to do this, he had to lower his eyes; this was perhaps just as obvious a tell, but it could not be helped. He noticed that his knuckles had paled where he gripped them in his lap. “If you do not wish to pursue your interest, then I will be forced to look elsewhere for a mate. I will have to leave the ship.”

 

Kirk made a despairing sound and Spock heard the creak of his chair and the soft whisper of cloth as he leaned forward. “There must be someone else on board – ”

 

“There is no one.” Spock forced himself to draw a breath to replace the one just spent. His chest hitched with the effort. The stark truth of that statement unsettled him; Jim could not possibly realize that Spock intended those words to be literal. Spock was not so attached to Jim that he would be incapable of bonding with another, but to make that happen, he would need to remove himself from the distraction caused by Jim’s very presence. Their friendship would end. In addition, he could not imagine that he would find anyone else of Jim’s caliber who would be willing to do more than just tolerate him. Spock’s only remaining recourse would be a…business transaction. His clan was still wealthy; Spock was more than able to compensate someone to endure the inconvenience of bonding with him. What he did not know was whether he himself would be able to exist in such a situation. He did not want to have to find out.

 

Several minutes passed in silence broken only by their tandem breathing and the occasional nervous movement. Finally, Kirk said, “Do you realize the magnitude of what you’re asking me to do?”

 

Without lifting his head, Spock nodded. He knew that very well.

 

“You’re basically telling me that if I want to keep you as my first officer – as my _friend –_ I have to not only fuck you – ”

 

Spock flinched, hard.

 

“ – but bond with you. Permanently. That is…hugely manipulative, Spock.”

 

“You are not obligated to accept these terms.”

 

“It’s practically blackmail!”

 

Spock sucked on his lower lip and then whispered, “That is not my intent. I cannot help what I am.”

 

Kirk swore, and Spock flinched again when he heard some small, fragile object break under Kirk’s hand. He didn’t dare look up when Kirk hissed, “I don’t even have the proper words for how very _wrong_ it is for you to just come in here and demand – ” He stopped himself with an audible effort and then ordered, “Get out.”

 

It felt as if a foreign object had lodged itself in Spock’s throat, but Kirk’s words served as impetus enough for him to raise his head. “It was not my intention to issue demands – ”

 

“I said _get out_ , before I say something I can’t take back.” Kirk wouldn’t look at him, his face set in forbidding lines. There was no hint of friendliness there – no fondness – not even an indication that it could return at some later date. His natural mental emanations had ceased as well, reeled in and shielded with such proficiency that he could have passed for a telepath. “I don’t want to look at you right now.”

 

A convulsive swallow seized at Spock’s throat. He tried to control the wild thump of his heart, and when that failed, turned his focus to his respirations instead. None of his calming exercises worked. He could only see Jim with his eyes; the warmth of his mind had gone elsewhere, and he couldn’t sense it from where he sat. “Jim, please – ”

 

“Dammit, Spock, _leave_!”

 

Spock winced at the wave of pure loathing that crossed the space between them, shocked to feel such a thing from _his_ Jim. It was horrible. He heard himself mumble something trite and politic, but it hardly detracted from the fact that he fled from the room as if he were being attacked.

 

When he stumbled into his own quarters, it was all he could do to light a meditation candle, his hands trembled so badly. He had made Jim hate him – he had _felt_ it – and he couldn’t even fix it. Spock had not consented nor had any input concerning his creation. He wasn’t capable of being other than what he was, and Jim despised what he was.

 

Spock wrenched himself back to the present, to his quarters, not having realized until that moment that his mind had been fumbling in a panic for some other consciousness to connect with, some anchor by which to reassure himself that he was not actually alone, solitary creature though he may be. But there were no others – there had been no others for nearly two years now. Was this what McCoy had meant, so many months ago, when he had accused Spock of failing to properly deal with the effects of the loss of Vulcan? He could sense the ship around him still, but it was not enough – it was not nearly loud enough to beat back the silence.

 

He folded his hands, index and middle fingers steepled. “ _Dakh'uh pthak_ ,” he intoned. His voice would not hold steady. He breathed deep and continued.“ _Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_.”

 

Vulcans were telepaths; they had evolved a collective awareness, like background radiation on a telepathic plane. They were not meant to be alone in their minds.

 

“ _Dakh'uh pthak_.”

 

Irrelevant. Spock would attain control. He forced his mind to fold inward.

 

“ _Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_.”

 

This situation was of his own doing; he would accept that.

 

“ _Wilat ri nam-tor zherka,  ri nam-tor kusut_.”

 

He had been irresponsible to allow such a lack of mental discipline to fester for so long. To need companionship – to require it as an element essential to survival – indicated an emotional shortcoming. A Vulcan must not allow himself to form emotional attachments, not under any circumstances. Hadn’t he learned that? Had not his own father made sure that he understood that requirement to a healthy Vulcan life?

 

// _You must try harder not to become emotionally invested, My Wife. It will only cause that much more pain upon his inevitable death. Pain should be avoided whenever possible. It is logical. //_

 

Spock wrenched his focus away from the remembered words of his father. One must not dwell on the past as it serves no constructive purpose. He needed to concentrate on the present problem. His error must be rectified.

 

“ _Nam-tor kusut vel t'kashek. Kup-putash-tor kashek. Goh-tash zhelesh let’theiri_.”

 

He was Vulcan; he _needed_ no one.

 

 _Kaiidth_.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock surfaced slowly, his thoughts muddled and heavy at first, like emerging from an oil slick floating on the surface of a body of water. He did not know how many hours he had spent kneeling in meditation; his time sense had ceased to function yet again. He blew out the candle and engaged in a short calisthenics routine, stretching out his cramped limbs and setting his blood to flow unhindered again. A glance at the chronometer on his desk served to reorient him temporally, and Spock engaged in his daily hygienic rituals before leaving to obtain nourishment. He had twenty three minutes before the start of beta shift. Punctuality would pose no challenge.

 

The captain did not offer his customary greeting when Spock stepped onto the bridge. This produced no effect. Spock assumed his station and executed his essential duties before turning his attention to the results of several experiments. The captain turned command over to him at 1700 hours exactly. This precision was gratifying. Spock accepted command as required by Starfleet procedural mandates. He did not watch the captain leave, though he noted Kirk’s pause in the turbolift recess.

 

At 2300, Spock relinquished command to the gamma shift helm officer and exited the bridge. He made it all the way to deck seven before the subtle yet perfectly normal trembling of a turbolift in motion finally got to him. In hindsight, he suspected that it had to do with the quality of the vibrations rumbling against the soles of his feet, but at the exact moment when his control crumbled beneath its own weight, he could not possibly have cared less. He hit the override to stop the lift and sank down along the wall panel until he reached the floor, his entire body shaking. The floor no longer moved, but it did not seem to matter because Jim was not there to ground him this time. He drew his legs to his chest and tried not to drown in the empty spaces in his head where awareness of an entire race should reside.

 

It took maintenance personnel eighteen minutes and thirty two seconds to reach him, but when the ceiling panel slid aside, it was not a technician who dropped down beside him. Jim mimicked his position on the floor and sighed to break the silence. “So usually, this is where I insert some witty one-liner in lieu of an apology, you give me The Eyebrow of Unimpressedness, and we go on as if nothing happened.”

 

Spock risked a brief glance, but it hurt to look at him. Little broken edges of his mind responded to the sight of him and tried to reach out along a connection that did not exist – had _never_ existed. It was like crawling toward Jim on hands and knees over an expanse of glass shards and never coming close enough to actually touch him. For how long had he been reaching like that, somewhere beneath his own notice? And for how long had Jim been reaching back to meet him every time, soothing the emptiness without the slightest conception of what he was really doing for an isolated and needy telepath?

 

Spock rested his forehead back on his folded arms, which in turn rested on his knees, and resumed his previous position. It was awkward, considering how violently he continued to shake.

 

Beside him, Jim swallowed; the sound tore through the stillness more surely than words ever could. “Say something, please.”

 

Into the cavern formed by his shivering limbs, Spock replied, “Unimpressedness is not a word.”

 

“Something else.”

 

“I do not require your assistance.” It was a stupid thing to say, and obviously untrue. He would have done better to ignore Jim’s appeal.

 

Jim’s profile moved enough that Spock caught motion from the corner of his eye. “Okay. I’m just gonna rest here for a little while, then. Climbing around in turboshafts is hard work.”

 

“I did not request your company.” Spock tuned out the sound of Jim existing and focused on not becoming dizzy on account of his erratic breathing. His concentration broke when Jim’s outline shifted again, rocking the tubolift car in its mooring clamps. “Cease moving!”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Spock could tell that Jim was smearing a hand wearily over his face, perhaps in an effort to remove partially dried perspiration. Humans leaked appalling amounts of water with so little provocation. It was wasteful and inefficient.

 

“Look, I know I’m not exactly your favorite person right now, so I promise I’ll leave as soon as McCoy gets here.”

 

Spock felt an odd, billowing sort of rage wash through him like a gentle, moist breeze in an Earth summer. Rather than enlivening him, it left him feeling enervated and disturbingly calm. He shook his head, mussing his bangs where they rubbed against his sleeve. “Your promises mean nothing. You make them as a matter of convenience for your cowardice, with no intention of keeping them beyond the immediate need to end an undesirable personal interaction. You are selfish and cruel and deceitful, and I have no further use for your words.”

 

Jim went so still beside him that Spock imagined the very air paling between them. A soft, deliberate swallow followed, and Jim breathed a shaky, “Okay,” in response. “I deserved that.” He didn’t leave, though; he stayed right there at Spock’s side, his emotions somehow reigned in so tightly that all Spock could sense was his physical warmth. Then he remarked, “Your breathing’s getting worse, and it’s kind of freaking me out because I’ve been reading all sorts of medical texts on Vulcan emotional expression and shock and broken bonds and shit, and you’re like…radiating warning signs for a complete meltdown.”

 

“I have no need of you,” Spock informed him, but the words hurt coming out.

 

“Alright, that’s fine. Message received. But you’re like…not here at all. I can usually feel you or something when you’re this close.”

 

Spock gripped himself harder, fingers dug into his own biceps. “I can control.”

 

For a moment, Kirk said nothing, and then he shifted, causing the lift to sway once again. Spock stiffened until the movement ceased, “Look,” Kirk said. “I know you’ve shut down somehow, _and_ I know that it’s my fault you thought you had to do it. I also know that it’s not natural, and you’re hurting yourself. And I can’t let you do that anymore, so I’m gonna touch you now.”

 

In any other circumstance, Spock probably would have offered protest, but a human-warm hand slipped behind his shoulders before he could form one, propelling him gently forward into the arm which Jim had already snaked around his waist, threading neutral touches through the gaps between his own limbs. Spock remained in a rigid curl in spite of this careful handling, like a dead Terran pill bug sun-baked into a ball on a window sill. He had found dozens of them in his dorm room as a student at the academy – brittle carapices that fell to dust when he attempted to pick them up between indelicate, Vulcan-clumsy fingers.

 

Jim wormed his way between Spock and the paneling, tucking him close. Unnoticed until now, Spock’s shirts had ridden up when he slid down the wall, exposing a band of bare skin around his midsection. Jim’s fingers slid across the soft expanse of his stomach as he tugged Spock against his chest, and Spock jerked at the sudden intimate contact, squirming at the unintentional barrage of Jim’s undampened thoughts. _Worry worry worry – whatdidyoudotohim, lookwhatyoudid –_

Spock seized at his wrist in an instinctive bid to pluck the hand off, and Jim twisted this grip to his advantage, covering the back of Spock’s hand with his palm and locking their fingers together. Spock hissed and convulsed at the burst of sensation and heat – didn’t Jim know that was obscene, clasping hands like that? “No – _stop_ – ”

 

“I know – sorry – here.” Jim used their joined hands to brace against Spock’s stomach, their arms tangled and clamped to Spock’s ribcage, effectively holding him in place. When Jim squeezed, Spock choked briefly over the lock and flutter of his own throat muscles, but Jim’s other hand distracted him before he could think to fight the firm yet gentle hold. Jim’s right hand gentled over Spock’s cheek and jaw, insistently turning his face into Jim’s neck and then petting down his hair until his fingers reached the hollow at the base of Spock’s skull and pressed in.

 

The sensation was so startling that Spock arched slightly and sucked in a sudden breath, his vision going glassy. The sensation was not sexual, no matter his initial reaction, but there was undeniable pleasure to it. Pleasure and a heady, effusive calm. “What…what are you doing?” he asked weakly, his tongue thick in his mouth.

 

“I told you, I’ve been researching Vulcan culture and social behaviors,” Jim murmured. He continued massaging tiny circles into Spock’s neck. “Hacked into the medical databanks. It seems you guys finally realized that you need help more than you need to preserve your mystique.”

 

Spock blinked, realized he had failed to lift his lids back up, and struggled to keep from letting his forehead rest against Jim’s cheek. “I do not understand.” He felt drugged and calm and wonderful, and he couldn’t figure out how Jim had accomplished this. Keeping his head up proved to be a losing battle, so he dropped it into the crook of Jim’s neck, where it was blissfully warm and he could breathe in the humidity of human skin. His right ear pressed flush against Jim’s carotid so that Spock could hear the pulse and rush of his blood like white noise. When he blinked, his eyelashes on the right side dragged across the smooth skin of Jim’s jaw. His next inhalation consisted solely of air warmed with the elusive scent of _Jim_.

 

Jim’s ministrations had faltered at Spock’s pronouncement, but he recovered quickly. “No one’s ever tried this on you before? I was only guessing that you’d still be young enough for it to work.”

 

“No.” Spock’s voice came out thin like air through reeds. He felt drowsy and sated, though he hadn’t been hungry before Jim’s touch, and he had consumed no nourishment in the interim. Curious. A sharp burst of _protective/disbelief/sadness_ pierced the haze of calm that Spock was drowning in, and then abruptly evaporated. Spock grunted in discomfort, but the lazy curls of whatever Jim was doing to him subsumed it within a handful of seconds.

 

“Sorry,” Jim whispered. “Touch telepath, I know. I’ll try harder.”

 

Spock’s lids grew so heavy that he found it necessary to close them, heat and prickles of _safe/affection/not-alone_ wrapping like tentacles about his conscious mind. It was so much…so much, and just enough to take the edge off of the vertigo he had been feeling all day. How had he not noticed it until now? “Jim…’splain?”

 

“Right.” Jim shifted them both.

 

It was only then that Spock realized that he was no longer folded in on himself. He was gradually slumping lower on Jim’s chest, one hand still captured in Jim’s but now gone limp, his other arm trailing over Jim’s thigh and his fingers splayed open on the floor, still twitching at the abrupt release of muscular tension. His legs were sprawled out and hooked over one of Jim’s ankles. He had not realized before that Jim had bracketed him between his legs. Jim’s left knee seemed to be the only thing preventing him from ending up in a widely spread heap all over the deck.

 

“It’s this thing I read,” Jim murmured, his voice like wind and soft blankets. “Vulcans have like a backup set of adrenal glands close to the edge of the skull, where the brain stem extends into the cervical column. Stimulating them releases a neurochemical that’s kind of like human oxytocin times a hundred. The hug hormone, you know? Anyway, when a Vulcan gets upset or can’t get control of their emotions, like a kid having a tantrum or a baby crying or something, a parent can stimulate the glands to calm the kid down. They go dormant by the time puberty ends.” Jim paused and Spock tried to wet his lips only to find his tongue sticking sleepily to the roof of his mouth. More quietly, as if he weren’t certain he should be asking at all, Jim inquired, “Your parents seriously never did this for you?”

 

“Though I am aware…of the glands, I have…no recollection of…such an occurrence.” Speaking had become truly difficult, but strangely, he was not perturbed by this. What Jim was doing could have been described as euphoric if it did not also serve as a soporific.

 

“Even when you were a baby? All the stuff I read said they should have. It’s supposed to strengthen the parental bond, or something. There was a whole section about separation syndrome and the evolution of the glands, and how they probably helped prehistoric Vulcans survive infancy.”

 

Spock’s body attempted to tense, but he was too relaxed. Several limbs merely twitched and spasmed in a half-hearted fashion instead. “My mother was not able to maintain a parental link with me.” Her bond with Sarek had been strong, but Sarek was a mature telepath; a child’s unrefined gift requires pairing with an adult and fully developed telepathic mind.

 

Hesitantly, Jim pressed, “What about your father, then? Don’t you have a bond with him?”

 

“Sarek never consented to meld with me.” The air that Spock exhaled chuffed gently past his increasingly numb lips in warm, erratic puffs despite all the calm that he felt. “It was not…logical…to grow emotionally attached to a child…not likely to survive.”

 

Jim swallowed and Spock heard the click and gulp of his throat muscles clearly through the ear still plastered to Jim’s neck. His fingers ceased their movement at the back of Spock’s head, but he did not withdraw them. “That’s not right.”

 

“It was logical,” Spock mouthed with the barest hint of air past his vocal chords. “Having a bond…may have killed him too…had I died.”

 

“But…then you don’t – didn’t have – _don’t_ have _any_ bonds? Any links, with _anyone_?”

 

“I was betrothed before Nero. She did not approve of me.”

 

“Spock…” Jim sounded stricken. “I thought you… You’re a telepath. You’re supposed to be connected to people the same way human children are supposed to be touched.”

 

“I am aware of the deficiencies of my upbringing.” It occurred to him that this dense, induced calm felt very similar to what Ta’lan had done to him by pressing his fingers into vertebral cavities. That had been oppressive, however, and manipulative and ultimately unpleasant. What Jim had done felt good and clean, and provided a welcome reprieve from the irrational emotional reaction induced by the rattling of the turbolift.

 

Unexpectedly, Jim flinched, his fingers retreating from behind Spock’s head.

 

Spock peeled his eyes open but lost the struggle to either focus or lift his head. Thankfully, Jim caught him behind the neck when he attempted to tip his head back and found himself very nearly boneless. He blinked at Jim’s guarded and yet concerned face, groggy and slightly disoriented. Jim must have heard his comparison to Ta’lan. This bleed-over of his telepathy should have concerned him, but he couldn’t muster the will to care overmuch.

 

“Yeah,” Jim simply replied. And _sick/disgusted /wrong_ spilled into Spock’s skin, made it crawl for the brief moment it took for Jim to make his projection stop again. “You see now? You didn’t even know, and he was using it on you so he could… Spock, he may as well have drugged your tea. It’s…too easy to take advantage of you like this. You’re just…” He made a clumsy attempt to convey the notion of Spock as an overgrown boy – sprawled sleepy and docile on the floor of a turbolift – innocent, being touched by a man who knew his weaknesses and could manipulate him into complacency no matter how intelligent he was. Vulnerable.

 

Spock breathed heavily and let his head flop back to Jim’s shoulder. His nose impacted Jim’s collar and the fabric tickled, but the inconvenience wasn’t worth moving again. “You are not Ta’lan.”

 

“I know,” Jim murmured. “And I know I can’t apply human mores to this situation because no matter who your mother was, you’re not human.”

 

His words partially muffled by Jim’s shirt, Spock asked, “Then why do you persist in comparing yourself to one who preys on the innocent?”

 

A long minute dragged by, during which Spock made a valiant effort not to fall asleep altogether. “I’m not like that. I know I would never hurt somebody that way, especially not you, but I can’t help looking at the way we interact sometimes and seeing similarities. It’s _my_ baggage, Spock. It’s not your fault I still lug it around with me. I’ve just…I’ve been…there were people, once, and I had to do things to survive that grown-ups would have rather died than do, and it’s… Spock, I already use sex as a tool; you've seen me do it, to get information or to gain trust, or as a distraction on missions... It's such a fine line between that and... I don’t want to become like them. Ever. Not even a little bit. Do you see?”

 

A slow, heavy fog seemed to hover in Spock’s mind, nearly severing his conscious intent from the rest of his body. “Is this…why you reacted so…violently last night?”

 

Jim shifted Spock’s mostly limp body and tightened his grip as if he thought that Spock might be stolen away, were he to give the wrong answer. Spock grunted in mild discomfort but Jim did not let up. “You didn’t deserve that – I _know_ you. What you told me wasn’t malicious, it was only the truth, but the way you said it…resonated a bit too much. Like the famine words.” Jim lowered his head and nosed at Spock’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry I said those things to you.”

 

Spock fumbled his free hand up to give Jim an uncoordinated pat upside the head. Jim winced as if it hurt. “At least you did not knock out any of my teeth.”

 

Jim snorted and grabbed his hand when he proved unable to move it with any degree of finesse. “Jerk.”

 

The entire exchange finally proved too taxing to Spock’s stupefied nervous system, so he allowed Jim to maneuver his recalcitrant limb back into a comfortable position and sagged into the support offered by the rest of his body. “Jim…” He filled his lungs as far as they would go and then let all of the air out again in a long, rattling sigh. “m’sleepy.”

 

“Yeah, um. I think I overdid it a bit.”

 

Spock chuffed an agreement though he was hardly in a frame of mind to complain, being warm, boneless and already less than marginally conscious. It was safe here. He was not alone here. Jim jostled them both around and slapped at something until the turbolift began to move again. The low vibration of the decking stirred Spock to a groggy sort of half-worry, but only just, and they reached deck five before he could do more than confirm to himself that yes, they were going someplace.

 

The doors hissed open and then a pregnant pause ensued. “Jim – ” Ah. Doctor McCoy. “What in blazes did you do to him?”

 

 _Sheepish/defensive/protective_ – Jim held Spock more tightly, and it soothed him back into that stupefied, cottony state of mind where everything floated and glowed and was warm. Spock had not been sufficiently warm in so long, he had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold. “I read about this thing in that literature you, um…had lying around…on your password-protected terminal. The adrenal gland thing?”

 

McCoy sounded incredulous when he exclaimed, “That actually _worked_?” A tricorder bleeped and Spock ticked. “Hot damn. He’s reading as pretty much stoned off his gourd.”

 

Jim stiffened and squeezed, and snapped, “Yeah, well I figured this would be better than letting him work himself into a seizure from the mental imbalance or something. He was pretty much there already, Bones – he cut himself off completely.”

 

A snort sounded over the click of some unidentifiable piece of medical equipment. “Hey, Spock.” McCoy was leaning pretty close to him. In fact, Spock could see him. When had he opened his eyes? He couldn’t recall, so he must not have done so. “You in there?”

 

“I can see you through my eyelids,” Spock announced gravely.

 

One of McCoy’s eyebrows danced upward. “Are you tryin’ to be funny?”

 

“Negative,” Spock replied. He rolled his head back and found himself blinking at a neck and several disordered tufts of dark blond hair. Spock stared at it for a moment. “Jim?”

 

“Yes, Spock?”

 

“You have nice hair.”

 

“Oh my god,” McCoy groaned while Jim emitted an alarmingly convulsive cough.

 

“It is shiny,” Spock reported. It was only logical to report on all interesting phenomena encountered during the course of one’s duty. “Like Starfleet regulations.”

 

“Jim, I’m gonna have to declare your Vulcan unfit for duty.”

 

“Yeah, I totally get that,” Jim replied.

 

Spock squirmed happily at _fond/amused/warm_ , his limbs weighed down with the languid heat of contentment and calm that Jim had induced in him, and opened his mouth to better inhale what Jim smelled like.

 

“I’m also thinking that this adrenal response thing is a bit more complicated than the Vulcans realize.”

 

“Well,” Jim offered, and now there was discomfort dribbling into Spock’s awareness. “They actually did say in those reports that it’s not really appropriate to try it beyond a certain age. It can have unintended side effects.”

 

McCoy didn’t answer for a few seconds, and then he chuckled. “Yeah, because Vulcan brain structure changes as they mature, more so than in most other humanoids. It works like a mild tranquilizer in kids.”

 

“What, and adults get completely stoned off of it?” Jim asked, somewhat incredulous.

 

“Not just from that, no, but it would loosen telepathic controls. A lot. Make him a bit more suggestive, get him drunk on everything coming in at him, basically. Throw in some body contact, a friendly mind, and yeah – stoned about covers it. It makes sense, actually,” McCoy mused.

 

At some point, Spock had taken to staring at him from the safety offered by Jim’s clavicle, in which he had planted his nose. Through his eyelids again. It was curious.

 

“Oxytocin in its pure form is a sort of mind-altering drug; same goes for the Vulcan analog. And what a young adult Vulcan’s adrenal glands produce is far more potent than what a child’s could spit out. Vulcans are strange creatures, Jim; their physiology really does change a lot with maturation. They’re warm-blooded mammals, but with copper-based blood and a desert-based evolutionary history. They do have a few traits more commonly found in reptiles or amphibians, like more radical physiological changes as they pass through adolescence. The way they regulate their body temperature, for instance, isn’t mammalian at all.”

 

“Again with the biology lessons,” Jim grumbled.

 

“You know, I bet he wouldn’t be half this loopy with anybody else touchin’ him.”

 

“Thanks, Bones. I wasn’t feeling guilty enough already.” Kirk shifted Spock’s limp form into a more upright position, which also somehow led to more body contact – fascinating. Spock rested his head back on Jim’s shoulder and gave a happy sigh. “Can you fix him?”

 

McCoy clicked off his feinberger and the silence left in its wake caused Spock to tic in discomfort. He liked the noise that normally surrounded him on board the Enterprise; it proved the existence of other life forms in close proximity more tangibly even than the dull impression of consciousnesses that he could sense as a low level telepathic hum around him when he concentrated hard. His own personal telepathic net. Jim seemed to sense that small bit of discomfort in the minute tensing of Spock’s limbs, and he squeezed Spock around the midsection as if to reassure him.

 

“He just needs to sleep it off,” McCoy replied, his voice lowering in the quiet. His fingers burned a trail over Spock’s forehead, moving disordered tufts of hair aside. 

 

Spock grunted, a soft but strangely harsh sound like a board of Styrofoam when it snaps, and Jim twisted both their torsos to move Spock out of reach. “He doesn’t like you touching him like that,” Jim snapped.

 

McCoy withdrew, but not before surface emotions bubbled through his skin and invaded Spock’s consciousness with an effervescent and wholly unwelcome sense of amusement. Spock shuddered in reaction. “Relax, Jim. See? Keepin’ my hands to myself.”

 

Jim scoffed, but he was also mollified; Spock could feel it. It made him purr. Which evidently disturbed Jim. He startled and then hissed, “Bones?!”

 

“He’ll be better off in his quarters than sickbay,” McCoy announced, failing altogether to address Jim’s apprehension. “Just give him a few hours. I’ll want to see him whenever he wakes up, just to be certain it’s worn off, but I’m not worried.”

 

“Something’s rattling,” Jim told him. “I think he’s having trouble breathing.”

 

“It’s vestigial,” McCoy told him, impatient. “He’s fine.”

 

Spock opened his eyes and quelled the vibrations in his throat and chest. Jim sighed in relief and Spock blinked, lazy and somehow satisfied, before turning his face into Jim’s neck.

 

McCoy was standing now, gathering the contents of his emergency med kit. “I cleared the corridors when the lift stopped, so no worries there. You need a hand with him?”

 

“Spock?” Jim jostled him until he made eye contact. “Can you walk?”

 

Spock spent a moment in self-assessment, forgot what he was doing, and then decided that he wished to return to his quarters since his shift was over and he was hungry and amenable to sleep, though not at the same time because that would not be advisable. “I require assistance.” But then the hungry part caught up in his mind, and he raised both eyebrows with a bleary exclamation of, “Oh!”

 

Looking up at McCoy, Jim ordered, “Give me a hand.”

 

Spock allowed himself to be manhandled into sitting upright, though he was distracted by his efforts to rummage through his pockets until he found a snack ration. Once he had it in his hands, however, he stopped to stare at it. He couldn’t eat this; what if Jim became hungry? Jim must not be left hungry. He must never be hungry.

 

Jim was kneeling in front of him now, smiling gently with his hands on Spock’s shoulders. “Got the munchies, huh? Since when do you even like those snack things?”

 

Spock blinked at the ration, slowly and several times. Did his head always wobble like this? Fascinating. He looked up and pressed the little packet to Jim’s chest.

 

Jim automatically raised a hand to take it, his brow furrowed. “Spock?”

 

“I will not consume your food.”

 

Spock gravely regarded Jim’s fingers as they curled more tightly over the ration. “You were carrying this around for me?”

 

“I do not wish for you to be hungry. You do not like it.”

 

“Oh, hell,” McCoy mumbled, his voice odd in its faintness.

 

“I have others if that is not to your liking.” Spock twisted to get his fumbling fingers into his other pocket, and then pushed another snack ration into Jim’s hand. Jim accepted that one as well, but his hands closed over them as if he were suffering from muscle weakness. Consuming food would rectify the condition. It was pleasing to Spock to know that he was able to effect this remedy. Spock swallowed to relieve the dryness of his mouth and then rubbed absently at his nose, his fuzzy gaze blundering off into the corridor past McCoy’s legs. “I wish to return to my quarters at this time.”

 

“Sure, Spock,” McCoy replied, lowering himself back to the floor of the turbolift. Jim seemed preoccupied, but since McCoy was not bothered by this, Spock did not concern himself either. “Let’s just get you back on your feet, shall we?”

 

Spock nodded and allowed McCoy to inject him with what he assumed was a stimulant. It made him feel trembly and dizzy, but the rush of energy was a welcome thing. He still felt strange and muffled, but the desire to curl up in the first available corner receded. The turbolift was rounded anyway, so this was a good thing. “This room is too round.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a right shame,” McCoy drawled. He and Jim both had hands under his arms and Spock attempted to help them drag him to his feet. “We’ll take you to a nice square room, okay?”

 

Once they had him upright, Spock swayed into Jim and remained leaning against him. “That is acceptable.”

 

Jim had wrapped his arm around Spock’s back to help support him, and Spock took this as permission to inhale him. Unobtrusively, of course, because sniffing at Jim outright would be considered rude by human practices. Spock allowed himself to be guided out into the empty corridor, his feet leaden and unreliable. Jim smelled like exercise and running and thinking, and a shower, plus bits of Spock that had rubbed off on him in the turbolift. This was highly agreeable; Jim should smell like Spock all the time.

 

On his left, McCoy seemed to choke; the distraction caused all three of them to stumble. Spock focused his attention on making the floor stay flat.

 

Jim hoisted Spock back up, wrapping Spock’s mostly useless right arm over his shoulders, and griped, “Shut up, Bones. He can’t help it.”

 

On his other side, McCoy did the same with his other arm and continued to chuckle softly at odd intervals, but Spock could spare little notice for what either of them were doing. He required all of his focus to simply remain upright and in forward motion.

 

“Sorry, Jim,” McCoy murmured, his syllable interspersed with odd inhalations and strange vibrations of his shoulders. When he spoke, his thickened accent made it seem almost as if he were slurring his words. “It’s just, I ain’t never had no loopy Vulcan spillin’ his olfactory impressions into my occipital lobes.” After a moment’s consideration, he added, “And to a Vulcan, you smell _real_ nice, Jim-boy.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

Spock arrested his forward momentum, brought up short by the sudden skewing of the direction of his thoughts. The humans flanking him both staggered and tried not to overbalance. “Where is this Vulcan? His conduct is unbecoming and intrusive. I shall tell him so.”

 

“We already took care of it,” Jim told him. “Come on, now. You need corners, remember? A nice square room.”

 

The corridor swam out of focus, shimmered briefly, and then sharpened again. Spock lifted both eyebrows so that his eyes would have enough room to stay open beneath his brows; they kept trying to close. But that was alright, he recalled, since he could see through his eyelids now.

 

“Hey, no sleeping on your feet,” McCoy snapped. Both his and Jim’s arms tightened around him.

 

Spock blinked and found himself listing to the right, into Jim’s flank. Human heat bled all around him, searing him through his clothes with chuckles and happiness and affection and concern. Sparkles of emotion danced across his skin and sunk into his veins to warm him from the inside. “Yes,” he replied, though he had forgotten the question. It seemed to be the appropriate response, however, as Jim and McCoy began walking again.

 

Later, the only thing that Spock could recall from their arrival at his quarters was the gentle brush of Jim’s fingers across his left eyebrow as the blankets settling warm and heavy around him. Spock tried to follow as Jim removed his hand, his mind floundering in the emptiness to regain that desperately needed sense of not-alone that he had denied missing since the loss of Vulcan.

 

As he must have been doing for over a year now, Jim reached back and gave it to him even as he turned down the lights. Then he came back and stood beside the bed for a moment before leaning down and picking at errant bits of hair feathered in irregular drifts across Spock’s forehead. “I want you to remain on the Enterprise too.”

 

Spock peeled an eye open and struggled through a moment of surprise. “But – ”

 

“Tomorrow. Okay?” Without waiting for a reply, Jim touched the back of his hand in parting and then left the room.

 

Into the empty dark that he left behind him, Spock mumbled his own apology. “You are not a coward.”

 

He did not realize that Jim was still near enough to hear him until he heard the sad reply, “Yeah, I am. But I won’t let you suffer for it the way he did.”

 

It took a while for Spock to realize that Jim was referring to the other Spock, but by then, he was too far into sleep to give it any real thought.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock cracked one eye open, the other being buried in the pillow smooshed against the left side of his face. It took him a moment to find his bearings, and then he felt his heart flutter-stump against the inside of his ribcage. Surely, he had not actually compared Jim’s hair to Starfleet regulations.

 

“Hey.”

 

“…Captain.” Spock fumbled a hand out from under the blankets and pressed it against the mattress in an effort to lever himself upright. He barely made it, his quilt following the swish of his legs, and then he had to force himself not to duck his head into a hand to stop it from wobbling. A few exaggerated blinks served to bring a glass of water into focus, dangling in front of his face courtesy of Jim. He steadied himself very carefully in order to take it without dropping or spilling it. This lack of coordination was not acceptable.

 

“Bones didn’t want you left alone,” Jim said by way of explaining his presence in Spock’s quarters. “I hope you don’t mind, but I used your desk terminal while you were sleeping.”

 

“Of course not, sir.” Spock sipped at the water as if it were a precious commodity. Which it was, to a desert species. He wondered if Jim knew the significance of just handing so much water to a Vulcan. “You are welcome to anything you require.” He paused in his drinking and peered carefully up at Jim in a vain effort to gauge his mood. “I hope…you were not too inconvenienced?”

 

Jim did not react negatively to this, though he failed to make a positive response as well. Instead, he set his datapad down on a shelf and sat in the chair beside Spock’s bed. After that, however, he said nothing for long enough that Spock wondered if he meant to speak at all.

 

“Sir?”

 

Jim held up a hand as if bracing himself against a nonverbal request for silence. “Doctor McCoy has placed you on temporary medical leave.”

 

Curious, the way that felt. Like sick and ulcers, and suffocation. He stared at the coverlet without seeing it.

 

“We’re en route to Argelius II. The crew is overdue for shore leave anyway, and Scotty put in for some engine time, so we’ll be there for about a month while he makes a few upgrades and runs stress tests on the older components.”

 

“Must I leave the ship?”

 

“No.” Jim shook his head without hesitation. “Not unless you want to. It’s on record that you need to stay close to the Enterprise crew until…well, I guess until further notice. McCoy thinks that’s still true, by the way; you may have…imprinted on me, but the rest of the crew is doing something for you too.” He paused, and then added, “If you do want to leave the ship, though, there are restrictions. For one, you have to be with another Enterprise crew member at all times; no going off alone.”

 

“I see.” Spock concealed his perturbation at the weak quality to his voice by ducking his face back into the water glass.

 

“This is just temporary, Spock. He said that the psych scans he took last week weren’t bad, but there were things that concerned him.”

 

“And you agree,” Spock snapped, his voice unnecessarily brittle. When had that happened?

 

Jim bit his lip and laced his fingers together in a position from which he could study them while continuing the conversation. His voice slow, as if he suspected his words ill-considered, Jim eventually replied, “I think that you need help. And I’m not sure that you know how to ask for it, or if you’re even allowed.”

 

Spock flared his nostrils. “You have reminded me on multiple occasions that I am to request assistance if needed. Furthermore, I am adept at using my mouth to make words. In the event that I do require assistance, I assure you, I know how to ask.”

 

“Sarcasm, Spock?”

 

“Statements of fact, sir.”

 

Jim shut his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he already had them looking in Spock’s direction. “It’s just Jim right now. No captains or sirs here. Alright?”

 

For several seconds, all Spock did was glare at him. The expression was unworthy of a Vulcan, but surely the cause was sufficient, just this once? “If you are not here as my commanding officer, then I am not obligated to humor you. Please leave.”

 

Jim nodded, but what he said was, “No. I agree with McCoy; I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now.”

 

“You are not an authority on my state of mind,” Spock informed him. He could feel the chill in his throat that colored his words sharp like ice shavings.

 

“Maybe not,” Jim agreed, “but I know erratic behavior when I see it.”

 

Spock fixed his gaze on Jim, unblinking in the Vulcan way; he made no concession for human sensibilities about predators and unbroken stares. “What do you know of my behavior?” Spock demanded. “I have been erratic for months. If my behavior is of such concern to you, then why have you waited until now to address it? Why is it only of import now, after McCoy has relieved me of duty?”

 

Jim opened his mouth the reply, something heated if his expression were anything to go by, but Spock did not want to hear it. He shoved the blankets away and rolled to his feet on the opposite side from where Jim sat. Jim rose as well, his voice an irritant buzzing behind him, but Spock was no longer paying attention to him. He gazed placidly at the floor where a dark spot of moisture spread in a circle in the carpet beside his bare left foot. He looked at the glass of water in his hand, half empty, and then down again at the liquid he had inadvertently spilled. Wasting water was as near to existential sin as a Vulcan could get. His gaze flickered back to the glass.

 

“…ever since Janus. Don’t you think it kills me to watch you do this to yourself? You’re my _friend_ , Spock. Spock?”

 

It was so easy, Spock thought, to waste something precious.

 

“What are you – Spock!”

 

Spock watched the remainder of the water dribble out of the upended glass, splattering the carpet and then spreading out in an uneven blob of dark red as it soaked it. He studied the shape that the stain made with scientific precision, the mathematical values relating to absorption and the speed at which the stain expanded dancing automatically through his head, area increasing in inverse parabolic proportion to the amount of time elapsed since the initial spill, variants depending on the density of the carpet nap.

 

He did not react when Jim snatched the glass out of his hand. Instead, he moved to his dresser and repeated the experiment with a jar of incense oil. In his mind, he contrasted the stain against the one made from the water, and charted a comparison that allowed him to extrapolate the viscosity of the oil. Before Jim could relieve him of the jar, he dropped it and watched it shatter. The sound of breaking glass and the pattern of shards arrayed on the floor like debris from an impact crater induced an odd feeling of satisfaction. Spock grabbed a container of hair product and dropped that as well, half aware of Jim gaping at him from a few feet away. The container cracked and broke apart, and yes: that was definitely satisfaction that he felt. Almost a sense of triumph. Curious.

 

Spock snatched an incense burner from the shelf beside his meditation nook and threw it against the floor to see if more force would result in a greater amount of that feeling. It did, so he repeated the process with the next object that came to hand, a pyramid of green serpentine from Earth. Without waiting to see how the broken pieces fell, he grabbed a figurine and listened to the crackle of splintering clay. He could understand why so many humans reveled in destruction. It was liberating.

 

“Spock, stop it.”

 

A wooden carving of a Denebian wildebeest went next, and that one broke in a wholly different manner.

 

“Stop! That’s an order!”

 

A datapad, a book, a tricorder, his wall tapestries – they all broke in different ways, some required tearing, and there was such unbridled satisfaction to the acts that he kept grabbing things until he found a wooden keepsake box in his hands. That one, he flung at the bulkhead with as much force as he could muster, enough to crack the brittle wood into a shower of slivers like a microcosmic explosion. The medals stored inside clanked first against the wall and then ricocheted to fall with dull thumps all over the floor in an uneven semi-circle amidst the debris, dispersed unevenly like chaos theory and geometry and vectors of force and inertia as applied to a dynamic system.

 

“Commander, stand down!”

 

Spock stared at the medals, breathing hard, half aware that he trembled in a manner that he should have found alarming if only because he knew, intellectually, that this reaction should have been due to rage. And yet he felt nothing. He stood staring down at the shiny reminders of the death of nearly an entire race, medals that Starfleet had presented to him with pomp and ceremony as if they were accolades and not death notes, and he shook so violently that he could hear it in the stutter of his breathing, and he felt nothing. “You should have left me on the Jellyfish.”

 

Behind him, Jim grew unnaturally still, and it seemed as if entropy slowed to render the air itself silent.

 

“I should not exist,” Spock told him, his eyes fixed on the farce at his feet. “I should never have existed.” Medals. Starfleet gave him medals to celebrate his failure, to serve as a reminder just in case he ever forgot what he had done. If the genetics experiments had not failed, if there had not been a mistake, a contaminant, then he would not exist. And if he had not existed, then Nero would have had no grudge against him, and by extension, Vulcan, and billions of beings would still be alive. Billions. It did not matter that Nero committed the actual murders. If an unrepeatable laboratory accident had not led to Spock’s viability and birth, he would not have grown to someday believe that he could save a star, and be brilliant enough to create red matter, and be conceited enough to believe that he could hold and wield and keep safe that much power. And then it would not have existed to be stolen by a madman, and used to destroy an entire world.

 

“Spock, that’s enough.”

 

“Do you think that my father feels guilt for having me created?”

 

“…I’m calling McCoy.”

 

“If he had not, then Vulcan would still be there.”

 

“Spock, I want you to sit down and wait for Bones.”

 

“There is a direct correlation between my existence and the destruction of my home planet. If I were in his place, I would resent me. Perhaps that is why he corresponds with me so infrequently. His wife would not be dead if he had not sought to have offspring with her. He loved her. He even said so.”

 

For some reason, Jim was breathing very hard, as if winded. Had he exerted himself? “Oh my god. You know. You know who Selek is.”

 

“He introduced himself.” Spock felt himself shake his head and attempted to abort the motion.

 

“That…fucking bastard. I’m going to kill him.”

 

“It does not matter. The universe did not end.”

 

“Well, of course not literally – that was a bullshit line all along! But god…Spock, there’s no reason you should have to know this; that was the point. It’s not like telling you can help anything now.”

 

Spock shrugged and realized that he was still holding an object in his hand – a crystalline carving of a silver bird of Vulcan’s Forge. He let his fingers fall open and watched the bird shatter at his feet. “It is only the truth.”

 

“Alright, I’m taking you back to my quarters.” Jim grasped him by an elbow and sought to turn him away from the array of medals as if trying to shelter him from something obscene. “Come on.”

 

Spock stumbled at the upset to his balance, then dragged his eyes over and up to Jim’s face. “It was not logical to go back for me.”

 

“You are _not_ better off dead.”

 

If Jim had not gone back for him, he would never have had to know about Selek. Would that not have been just a little bit better? And it would have been fitting, in a way. Like the universe setting things right. Even science argued for a sense of intrinsic balance in the cosmos. Quantum entanglement theory dictated that if you remove or change something in one place, it will automatically balance somewhere else, simply as a matter of nature, simply because it must. “You cannot know that.”

 

“Yes, I can,” Jim told him, and his conviction was such that Spock felt a tug somewhere inside of him echo it. “I knew that when I went back for you, and I know it now.”

 

“And what about your classmates? Or the Vulcans who could not escape the planet? Are they better off? Were their lives worth mine?”

 

“You can’t look at it that way, Spock – this wasn’t a trade off.”

 

“No. But it is a logical progression. I exist, and because of that, billions are dead.”

 

“What, and you think that dying on the Jellyfish would have made up for that? Spock, you can’t make up for that. Ever. It’s not your debt.”

 

“It is cause and effect.”

 

“It’s no such thing.”

 

Spock took a breath and allowed his eyes to wander to one side. He only noticed that he was shaking his head when Jim cupped his cheek in an effort to stop him looking away.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Spock closed his eyes to avoid seeing the expression on Jim’s face. He did not want pity.

 

“I’m not feeling pity for you, Spock. Look at me.”

 

Jim’s palm felt cool against his face. Spock ducked his head to nose against Jim’s wrist and opened his eyes there so that all he saw was a command gold sleeve and the captain’s braids at Jim’s cuff. He did not want to be here. He wanted to be home on Vulcan. Or on the Enterprise in the universe that his counterpart came from, where things weren’t all wrong like this. Or nowhere at all.

 

“Spock.” A low plea. Prickles of warmth. Worry. Friend. Spock looked up, and found that Jim was right; there was no pity on his face. There was only fear. Jim was just scared. It seemed that he understood that Spock didn’t know what to do, because he smiled a little. The expression tried to be his usual, easy smirk, but it looked sickly and forced, and somehow kinder for that. “I wish to god that I had some sort of platitude to give you, but I don’t. You weren’t supposed to have to carry this; I thought that was the whole point of not telling you who he is. But you are _not_ to blame for what happened to Vulcan, and you’re not to blame for your mother’s death.”

 

“But – ”

 

“He is not you,” Jim asserted, bodily shaking Spock with the force of his conviction.

 

“He is. In an unspoiled reality, I became him. The temporal mechanics of it are irrelevant; I did this, Jim.”

 

Jim shook his head in an almost violent fashion, and Spock could feel his revulsion like shards of thought against his skin. He tried to recoil from it, certain that it was directed at him, but Jim grabbed at his arms and would not let him retreat. “You are _not_ responsible. If anyone is, it’s him, and there is no possibility of you ever becoming that man now. He made sure of that when he fucked everything up for us.”

 

A matter of semantics, only. He already _was_ that Spock, and would have been again if he had not caused this.

 

“Spock, listen to me. I’ve been where you are right now. After Tarsus…I know this place. The ones who survive…in some ways, it’s worse for us, not dying too, with them. And that kind of guilt will never go away, but that doesn’t mean that it has to rule you. I can help you with that, but you have to let me. You have to want it.”

 

A strange, heavy sort of lassitude had stolen over Spock’s body. He regarded Jim from a slow place in his mind where time distorted and stretched out, and became nonsensical.

 

“Please, let me help.”

 

Ironic. Spock had strived his entire life to suppress emotion, to be the consummate Vulcan. And now, for the first time, he was. He felt nothing as he stared back at Jim. Absolutely nothing at all.

 

Perhaps that was why he finally nodded, and allowed Jim to lead him from the room.

 

* * * * *

 

Spock laid staring at the ceiling of Jim’s quarters. He could have spent the time in meditation, but it seemed like too much of an effort just then. Since shortly after depositing Spock on his bed, Jim had been conversing with McCoy on the other side of the room divider. They kept their voices down, but Spock could still hear them with perfect clarity. It hardly mattered to him what they were saying, though; Jim knew better than to think that they could carry on any kind of a conversation quietly enough to avoid Spock’s acute hearing without leaving Jim’s quarters altogether.  Spock did his best to ignore them both; he did not want to listen to what they were saying, he just wanted to find a way to end the emptiness in his head and the dull ache of nothing that seemed to suffuse every part of his body. Jim had covered him in a blanket as if that could ease the force of his shivering, as if the chill that Spock had endured all throughout his service on the Enterprise were a thing of the air, and not something more insidious that originated and welled up from within.

 

From the other room, Jim’s voice came through soft but urgent. Forceful. “Then what does he need, a Healer? I can pull some strings, or his father can. We’ll be at Argelius for a month; someone can come out here, or we can take him back to Earth, or the temporary colony.”

 

Spock rolled over onto his side, his back to the murmur of voices, and curled the blanket more tightly about himself. It smelled gently of Jim – his sleep, and his warmth, and the friend-scent that naturally imprints on a Vulcan when they become close enough to someone to be able to recognize the mind-feel of him in dark places. Spock rubbed his forehead across the fleece covering his arm and tucked his nose up under his elbow where the sounds in the other room could be muffled.

 

He still heard McCoy exhort, “No. Under no circumstances am I lettin’ one of those bastards anywhere near him.”

 

“What, Healers? They could _help_ him.”

 

“Absolutely not! You don’t know what they actually do, Jim. And maybe it’s fine for full-blooded Vulcans, but Spock? That’s not what he needs right now. Repressin’ all of this is what got him here in the first place.”

 

“Then _what_?! If anybody else had wrecked his quarters like that, I’d say it was a temper tantrum or stress or something, but him? He didn’t even crack. It was calm, Bones. He just started picking things up and breaking them like it was a science experiment. If he wasn’t shaking so hard, I wouldn’t even have known he was upset!”

 

Spock curled harder and tried to stuff the ends of the blanket in his ears. He could feel stubbornness and anger and fear in the air, and it left a bitter, coppery taste in the back of his throat.

 

“It _is_ stress, Jim, but that’s no excuse for making him submit to some – some brain scrambler!”

 

A few seconds passed, and then Jim said, “We have to stop arguing like this. It’s upsetting him.”

 

“…you can feel that?”

 

“Yeah, just… Hang on; I’ll be right back.” Footsteps like dull thumps, boots on carpet, and then a hand grasped as Spock’s shoulder. He tried to shake it off, but it persisted. “Spock. Come on, talk to me for a second.”

 

Spock allowed Jim to disentangle him from the blanket, and only then realized that he had gradually been smothering himself underneath it. When he blinked his eyes open, the light rendered everything crystalline, like a kaleidoscope. He had to squint against the sharpness of it, only half aware of McCoy drifting into his field of vision. Jim remained kneeling behind him on the bed.

 

The ever present Feinberger whirred for a moment, and then McCoy palmed it away again. “He’s got a migraine.” He sounded…surprised? The sense of it prickled against him.

 

Jim’s fingers tightened on his shoulder and then smoothed down his arm. “I thought he could control that sort of thing.”

 

“Yeah, well he’s not right now.” McCoy thumped about at in Spock’s periphery for a minute, and then returned with a chair. “Jim, I need a couple of minutes alone with him.”

 

“Okay.” The back of a finger brushed Spock’s cheek so delicately that it might have been imagined. Spock flinched. “I’ll start cleaning up the mess next door. He doesn’t need the steward’s gossip.”

 

Once the doors to Jim’s quarters hissed shut in his wake, McCoy sat down in the chair and leaned forward. “Spock. I need you talkin’, Commander.”

 

Spock regarded him with disinterest. “Why?”

 

“Because I don’t want to have to put you on suicide watch.”

 

“Suicide is illogical.”

 

“So is trashing your quarters and telling your captain you’d rather be dead.”

 

Spock conceded the point. “He misunderstood.”

 

For some reason, that did not reassure McCoy. It should have, but the doctor pursed his lips and looked down. “He said you cut yourself off so he couldn’t feel you anymore. That’s borderline self-destructive behavior for a telepath.”

 

“It was not.” It was self-preservation; McCoy did not know what Jim’s hatred felt like.

 

But McCoy kept going as if Spock had not spoken. “Now, I’m not gonna ask about how that implies that the two of you have some kind of semi-permanent telepathic link, or that it’s strong enough for even Jim to know it’s there, or that neither one of you disclosed it and you should have, at least to me – ”

 

“Why would I tell you?” Spock demanded. “You dislike the reminder that I am a telepath.”

 

McCoy’s head came up at that, and he seemed momentarily stricken before he could affect the neutral expression of the doctor once again. “Spock, this isn’t about me. How many times do I have to remind you that it’s not natural for a Vulcan to be alone in his head?”

 

“Why will you not contact a Mind Healer, then? You dislike telepaths so much that you would deny me assistance – ”

 

“I don’t want you going to one because they hurt you! Look, I may not be a Vulcan, but I made a point of learning these mind rules of yours. And going by that, what they did to you was a crime.”

 

“It was not a crime. I was violent – ”

 

“You were a child being bullied by his peers!”

 

“That does not justify my retaliation – ”

 

“It does, actually. Especially if nobody did anything to stop them. And as for the Healers, the second you resisted them, they should have backed off – it doesn’t matter how old you were or what your father told them to do. Instead, they forced their way in and did god knows what to make you conform to a Vulcan ideal, in complete disregard for the part of you that is _human_. And you don’t even realize that – they probably made sure that you wouldn’t. You don’t have control, Spock. You’ve got a bunch of road blocks in your head making it impossible for you to even _know_ that you’re feeling things.”

 

“I know that I feel,” Spock countered. He started at the sound of his own voice, however – the way it hissed through his teeth.

 

“Do you?” McCoy demanded. “Because it seems like every time you react with emotion, you look shocked for a second. Vulcans aren’t supposed to be logic machines. They’re supposed to feel emotions, identify them, figure out what’s causing them, and then put them away so that they can act without being influenced by them. You can’t do that because they made it so that you literally can’t feel them at all, not consciously. I suppose that worked for a while when you were a kid, made you act out less, but it never taught you control, only repression. That might have worked under normal circumstances – you might never have noticed – but nobody accounted for something like Nero. And now all of those severed emotions are festering away in there somewhere, affecting your actions in ways you can’t recognize and can’t stop. Can you really blame me for wanting to keep you away from more of that Mind Healer codswallop?”

 

Spock glared at him, but it gave way to pensiveness soon enough. He averted his gaze and gave into the need to huddle against the blanket that smelled of Jim.

 

“Aw, hell.”

 

The uncharacteristic sound of that, not an exhortation of frustration, caused Spock to flick his eyes back to McCoy.

 

“How bad is it?” McCoy asked, his tone gruff with some amorphous brand of sympathy. “This connection you’ve got with Jim.”

 

Spock swallowed and looked away again because he wasn’t exactly certain, but he had his suspicions.

 

“Dammit.” McCoy stood abruptly and walked a few steps away to the viewport. “All right.” With his back still turned, McCoy asked, “I’m going to be blunt here, and I’m ordering you to do the same. Do you want Jim? As a mate, I mean. Am I readin’ this right?”

 

Did he? He had thought so just two days ago. “I do not know.”

 

McCoy nodded as if this were a perfectly logical response, when to Spock, it was anything but. Perhaps to a human, though, it made sense. “Do you want him because you’re attracted to him, or because he’s convenient?”

 

Again, Spock reflected that he had a very strong dislike for the manner in which McCoy could somehow cut straight to the marrow of an issue and then expose it to the raw air. It must have had something to do with his expertise as a surgeon. “The captain is not a convenience.”

 

“You know that’s not how I meant it. Jim is everything you need, right where you need it. He’s the captain of the ship you can’t safely leave, he’s a friend, he’s mentally compatible with you, and he’s attracted to you sexually. He’s the easy solution to all of your problems, at least on the surface. So I’m asking you again: are you attracted to him because you want him, or because he’s convenient?”

 

Interesting how McCoy rephrased the question as if Spock had given something away by his evasion. Spock tried to give the query the consideration that it deserved, but all he could think in reply was that Jim was warm, and Spock did not want to be cold anymore.

 

Hesitant now, McCoy glanced over his shoulder, studying Spock the way Spock studied mineral samples. “I know how lonely you must be.”

 

Spock narrowed his eyes, because there was no way that McCoy could have known what he was thinking.

 

“You’ve probably never been anything else, but that doesn’t change the fact of it now.”

 

“You mean to imply that I am…clingy?” Spock asked. He wasn’t sure that he was employing that term correctly, in the Terran sense.

 

“Maybe that, yes, but more that Jim gives you something you’ve never had before, and it’s blindsided you so that you can’t see past it. You can’t be impartial about it.”

 

Immediately, Spock translated that to, “A friend. Jim is my friend.”

 

McCoy watched him for a moment, and the brand of that scrutiny made Spock fight not to fidget. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak as if tasting the air for tells, and clarified, “By the Vulcan definition.”

 

Spock blinked, then decided to sit up for this conversation. He folded his legs on the bed in front of himself, and clasped his hands in his lap, the blanket discarded in a pile behind him. “Jim has already made his position on that clear.”

 

“Has he?” McCoy angled himself in Spock’s direction, attentive, but remained at the viewport.

 

“Yes. He does not wish to share that kind of relationship with me.”

 

McCoy’s brows drew down to form a rather severe pair of slashes on his forehead. “What makes you say that?”

 

“He accused – ” Spock stopped, recalling the altercation in the next room, over the chess table. The memory alone was enough to cause a peculiar churn of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He found that his gaze had strayed in that direction, and wrenched it back. “He accused me of coercion. Of…blackmail.”

 

If anything, McCoy’s face darkened, and Spock leaned away from it before he could prevent himself. “He _what_?” He jerked his head to one side, gaze slanting away from Spock, and then squinted with his jaw clenched.

 

“It was not my intention to manipulate him,” Spock asserted. It seemed very important that McCoy understand this before he became irreconcilably angry at Spock. McCoy had enjoyed Jim’s friendship first. He would undoubtedly take Jim’s side in any disagreement, and Spock found, perplexingly enough, that he did not wish to lose McCoy’s goodwill.

 

McCoy snorted, but it was an ugly sound. “Don’t you think I know that?”

 

Spock had his mouth open in preparation for a more elaborate explanation, but he found himself silenced by that. After a moment, he closed his mouth and straightened, gathering his posture up so that he appeared more self-contained.

 

“Saints alive, the two of you are worse than a god damn soap opera.”

 

Soap…opera? “I beg your pardon.”

 

McCoy rolled his eyes to the ceiling and grumbled something too thickly distorted by his accent for Spock to understand. “Alright, look.” He abandoned his post by the viewport and returned to sit bent over in the chair before Spock, his elbows on this knees and his fingers laced together. “I’m talkin’ as ship’s CMO now. You are on medical leave until further notice.”

 

“The captain has already informed me of this.”

 

“Just shut up and listen to me, Spock. You’re on medical leave. I’m not specifying the reason in my log _yet_. If it becomes necessary later, I will, but for now, the only thing on record is that you are overworked, and suffering delayed effects from the destruction of Vulcan.”

 

Spock swallowed; he had not expected that McCoy would have concern for his privacy or dignity like this, in the manner that one Vulcan would accord another. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet; this comes with conditions. First off…Spock, I don’t want you left alone for a few days. What you said to Jim is more than just a little worrisome, and I know that Vulcans consider suicide illogical, but that hasn’t stopped dozens of them from making attempts in the past two years. Some have even succeeded. So you’re gonna humor me on this. Either Jim or myself will be with you at all times, until I’m confident that there’s no danger. Understood?”

 

Spock glanced aside and then nodded.

 

“Is there anyone else you’d trust not to go blabbin’ your business all over the place, or somebody you’d want involved? It’s your call. We can keep this just between the three of us if that’s what you want.”

 

“It will be an enormous drain on your time and patience.”

 

“That’s not important right now. If you don’t want anyone else involved, then we’ll work it out.”

 

Spock bit his lower lip and turned his gaze to his hands, and his steepled fingers. “Nyota claims that she is a friend, but I have not interacted casually with her in many months.”

 

“I don’t think that makes a difference. I’ll talk to her.”

 

“Yes.” Spock lifted his head, but his eyes only strafed McCoy’s face in passing.

 

“Do you want me to contact your father, or any other family members? Your file says that you have a human aunt back on Earth.”

 

Spock tried to prevent the wince, but his cheek still twitched. “She disapproved of my mother’s marrying an alien.”

 

McCoy grimaced. “Her kids, then? Your cousins?”

 

“No. They…I have not maintained ties with them.” Spock blinked a few times, reconsidered saying anything more, and then ventured in a halting fashion, “I have…a half brother. But he was exiled from Vulcan for refusing to follow the teachings of Surak. I do not know if he still lives.”

 

“That’s not in your file.”

 

“It would not be,” Spock replied. “He is treated by my clan as if he never existed.” An involuntary shudder worked its way through Spock’s frame.

 

McCoy became quiet and still at that. “How old were you when he was exiled?”

 

“It was before my Kahswan. I was no more than six at the time – eight or nine in Terran years.”

 

“So, when you were a little kid, you watched an elder sibling get exiled for being too emotional.”

 

Spock glanced up. “It was not the only offense. He incited emotions in others, and sought to begin a movement against the teachings of Surak.”

 

McCoy seemed on the verge of saying something more on the subject, but he evidently thought better of it. “Alright. That…explains some things. I’m assuming you’ve looked for him yourself.”

 

“Many times,” Spock breathed. He had spent the better part of a month, his first month at the Academy on Earth, searching for signs of his whereabouts. No record of him existed. He could have changed his name; he could be anywhere, or dead. Most likely the latter.

 

“I’m sorry, Spock.”

 

Spock drew himself up. “It is of no consequence. The matter was concluded many years ago.”

 

McCoy merely nodded at that, but the gesture did not appear to be an affirmation of Spock’s words. Somehow, he managed to negate Spock’s dismissal by it. “What was his name?”

 

“…Sybok.” The syllables felt foreign on Spock’s tongue. He had not spoken that name aloud in longer than he could remember; it had been forbidden within the walls of his father’s house. “He and my father fought constantly.”

 

“Is that right?” McCoy asked, his face gentle. It was obviously an affectation – he was analyzing Spock very closely, and paying far more concentrated attention to his words than his face betrayed, but Spock did not see cause to object. “What did they fight about?”

 

Spock hesitated for what felt like a long time. He could recall, dim like the ancient reels of microfiche still stored in the records halls of Starfleet Command, wailing in terror when he woke in the middle of the night and was alone in his room in the darkness. He had known so little language at that age that the cause of the fear was not something that he could recall; it had not had a place to fix in his mind with no words available to attach to it. What he did remember was that Sybok would sneak in at those times, a solemn and troubled young man, and pick Spock up to quiet him. The feel of Sybok’s mind soothing his like cool water in the Forge was not something that he thought of often, but it was something that he never forgot.

 

In a like manner, the altercations between Sybok and their father, physical as well as verbal, and the uncontrolled bursts of rage and despair, were also etched indelibly in his mind. Amanda had feared her stepson, and Sarek had simply been ill-equipped to cope with such a thing. The release of tension at Sybok's final absence had been a relief great enough that it still made Spock uncomfortable to recall it. 

 

Eventually, Spock hedged, “They fought on many subjects. Sybok was…disturbed, and unstable. His mother died during his infancy; it was unexpected and violent. The trauma of the broken parental bond likely caused permanent damage. I do not see how this is relevant at this time.”

 

“Alright,” McCoy agreed, his amiability false even to Spock’s untrained Vulcan eyes. “Let’s just talk about you, then. Why don’t you tell me about Selek.”

 

It finally dawned on Spock that McCoy was conducting a psychological evaluation. He twitched a bit and then raised an eyebrow at McCoy. “To what purpose?”

 

McCoy appeared to know that his motives had been discovered; he offered a smile of concession and sat back in his chair. “I’ll leave off today, but you will participate in some form of talk therapy until I decide otherwise. It doesn’t have to be me; M’Benga’s qualified too, or you can choose one of the ship’s counselors.”

 

“I do not require – ”

 

“You don’t have a choice here, Spock. Doctor’s orders.”

 

Spock subsided, disturbed by the way his next breath huffed out in a visible sign of either ire or distress. “What would you know of Vulcan psychology?”

 

“Would you rather I get a Mind Healer in here?” McCoy demanded. “All of my dislike aside, if that’s what you really want, I’ll go comm. one right now. I won’t like it, but I won’t stop you from willingly seeking any sort of help, even that. I’m more bothered by your lack of initiative and your refusal to see that there’s a problem, than anything else. So give me something to work with here.”

 

Spock regarded him with a degree of hostility that he knew McCoy did not deserve.

 

“Do you want me to get you a Mind Healer?”

 

His nose now itched, and it was causing an irrational urge to snarl. “No.”

 

McCoy breathed out a sigh of what could probably be categorized as relief, but he also continued to watch Spock with a hint of wariness. “Calm down, Commander. If you say no, I won’t call one. It’s that simple.”

 

Spock started a bit at that, and pressed his lips back into a straight line. That had been…disturbing.

 

“So you _are_ threatened by them,” McCoy remarked, apropos of nothing. “That’s encouraging, at least.”

 

Spock dropped his gaze to his hands and kept it there.

 

“Alright. I’ll go get Jim back in here, and fill him in. Uhura too, once her shift’s over.” McCoy leaned forward, likely in an attempt to draw Spock’s eyes upward; it did not work. “You and Jim are going to have to come to an understanding, and I’ll make sure he knows that too so that whatever happened between the two of you two days ago won’t repeat itself. Now, I want you to understand that there _are_ options for you. The Vulcan council made an agreement with the Deltans recently.” As an aside, he grumbled, “If ever there was a stranger pairing. In any case, they have far more experience dealing with strong emotions than any of us. One of their healers could help you deal with whatever’s bothering you most – grief, guilt – I don’t even know what else. Anything. They could even arrange to…well, at the risk of being indelicate, they could accommodate you in your Time, if it came to that. So don’t come at this with some kind of all-or-nothing mentality. Jim is not your only way out.”

 

Spock’s fingers clenched about themselves more tightly as he fought not to allow his cheeks to flush at the subject matter. He did not wish to speak of his Time. He did not even want to think about such a thing applied to himself. Considering his age and his sterility, it would likely never come, and therefore was not relevant to this matter. “I do not wish to speak of this.”

 

McCoy made a frustrated sound and stood up. “You can’t hide from it forever, you know. Try to meditate, or whatever it is you do to balance your brain-body thing. I checked your meal card, and you are way overdue for a load of calories, not to mention that you seem to have this habit of forgetting to eat more than once a day. So once we’ve got your quarters cleaned up, you will accompany me and the captain to the mess hall, and you will eat everything I put in front of you.”

 

The room fell silent after that, so Spock assumed that McCoy desired some kind of acknowledgement. He could not help the sudden flush of shame at the realization that he required someone else to monitor his basic needs in order to ensure his continued physical health. “Yes, Doctor.”

 

“Spock…” McCoy sighed his name as more of an invective than an appellation. “You know I’m worried about you, right? A lot of us are, actually. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“To a human, perhaps,” Spock conceded. “But a Vulcan should not be so ruled by emotions. My controls should be adequate to this task. The logic of the situation should be sufficient. I should not require reminders to consume nourishment, or…friends…” He glanced up at McCoy, and then quickly away again. Originally, he had meant to finish that thought, but he realized with a pang that it was already finished; he had nothing more to add to it.

 

McCoy’s footsteps sounded nearby, and then a hand on Spock’s arm, warm through the fabric of his uniform shirt, drew his gaze sideways. He stared at the fingers, and allowed his eyes to travel no further. “The cause is sufficient, Commander.”

 

Spock only looked up in time to watch McCoy’s back recede as he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, Vulcan-like self-destructive behavior.


	6. Chapter 6

Spock attempted to meditate enough to center himself after McCoy retreated through the bathroom, which joined to Spock’s quarters. He met with only marginal success, which perturbed him. It should not be so difficult to calm himself or to clear his thoughts. He had been doing so successfully for months, and nothing about his circumstances had changed considerably. Why was it suddenly impossible to cease shivering? He was not cold; Jim had raised the room temperature sufficiently enough to accommodate him. And again, nothing significant had changed to cause his baseline reactions to alter so much. He should be able to be still.

 

The hiss of hydraulics as a dresser drawer opened alerted Spock to Jim’s return. He opened his eyes just as Jim draped another blanket around his shoulders. “I raised the room temperature some more,” he offered, pulling the ends of the blanket around Spock’s arms and snug over his chest before sitting on the bed in front of him. Jim was sweating, but the condition did not seem to trouble him.

 

“While I appreciate the gesture, it will not help,” Spock told him. He tucked his hands up in the blanket anyway. “My body temperature is normal.”

 

“It can’t be. I’m surprised your teeth aren’t chattering.”

 

Spock shook his head and replied, “I am cold.”

 

Jim narrowed his eyes for a moment, then pivoted to fold his legs up on the bed, facing Spock. “You’ve been saying things like that since the mission began – that you’re cold on the Enterprise, or you’ve been cold since you left Vulcan. I thought it was because you came from a desert planet, but you don’t mean like… _n~o’tu_ – did I say that right? You don’t mean that, do you. Temperature-cold.”

 

Spock blinked and straightened at hearing Jim speak a word in the Vulcan tongue, albeit badly. His surprise was great enough that all he did in response was shake his head in the negative.

 

“Then… _samek_? _Samek-kur_. That’s what you mean.”

 

Cold inside, in his mind. Spock nodded even though the grammar and pronunciation of the statement nearly made him wince. The two Vulcan terms both translated to ‘cold’ in Terran standard. It had not occurred to him that Jim, and likely McCoy as well, did not differentiate between the two meanings in Vulcan when Spock used the Standard word for cold in conversation. Even Nyota has mistaken his statements for expressions of being chilled.

 

“ _Sa’awek_ ,” Spock clarified. Though he couldn’t be sure that Jim’s attempt at the Vulcan language included either that word or the cultural meaning behind it, Spock held his hand out, palm up, and inclined his head to indicate the mind, alone. “ _Kutz_.”

 

Jim appeared to be thinking that over, his head canted in what Spock had come to learn was an indication that the universal translator implant had given him a word different from the one spoken aloud by his conversational partner. “And even though the temperature isn’t cold, that makes you shiver?”

 

Spock nodded. “The physical sensation of it is difficult to describe, but it is like being cold, and the body reacts in that manner because it has no other, more accurate analog for physical expression of the condition.”

 

“That’s why it bothered you so much,” Jim realized. He studied Spock as if he posed a particularly difficult moral dilemma. “In the mess hall during your science war with Bones, you said that I’m warm, and that it should worry me. You meant telepathically. I’m literally warm to you.”

 

“ _Skamau du nash-veh_.”

 

“I entice you,” Jim translated, once again recalling that conversation in the mess hall. “The…warmth entices you.”

 

Not the warmth. Just Jim. Jim _was_ the warmth. “I tried to warn you.”

 

“Yeah,” Jim sighed. “Yeah, you did.”

 

From the tone of Jim’s voice, Spock deduced that this revelation was not welcome, and cinched the blanket more tightly about himself as he ducked his head. He felt a very human urge to apologize, and after examining it, he tucked it away. He seemed to have a knack for inciting disappointment in those whose welfare mattered to him.

 

A hand creeping over to hook in the crook of Spock’s elbow was the first indication he had that Jim had shifted his position. Spock allowed him to extract his arm from within the blankets and tug him forward a bit. “It seemed like this helped,” Jim told him. “In the gym, last time we sparred, you were shaking pretty bad, but it got better when I touched you.”

 

Spock swallowed and tried to inch backwards, out from under Jim’s encroaching hands. “You should not encourage this. I will become further accustomed to you.”

 

Jim paused his advance, but did not remove himself from Spock’s personal space. “If you want me to stop, I will. But don’t tell me to stop just because you think it’s the Vulcan thing to do, or because you think you shouldn’t want to let me.” He broke off long enough to gauge Spock’s reaction, and Spock found himself staring back in like manner. “Doyou want me to stop touching you?”

 

There was nothing Spock wanted less, but saying so was anathema to being Vulcan. He did not _need_ Jim’s touch, and so had no excuse for wanting it so badly. He opened his mouth to say as much, but the words seemed to dry in his throat. Jim touched him through the fabric of his shirt, but Spock could still feel a resolve to the cadence of his thoughts, muffled by fabric, that was reminiscent of the command persona that Jim displayed when in difficult situations on duty. This was the only overture that Jim would make – Spock could sense it. Jim had experience with rejection as well. He would only give Spock one opportunity to refuse him. Spock could say yes – could tell Jim that he wanted him to stop, and Jim would. Permanently. They could remain separate, and Spock could move on the best he could, and leave the Enterprise, whatever that would mean for him.

 

Or Spock could tell him no, and remain on the Enterprise, with Jim. And there would be no going back. One moment, one choice, and no going back. Yes or no. In all of his life, Spock had never before felt so tangibly that his existence rested on a fulcrum. Life or death decisions in the line of duty, when there was little time to consider consequences, were easy in comparison to this choice that Jim offered because Jim was allowing him to think about it first. Yes or no. Jim could not possibly have known what he actually offered by this, and Spock could not imagine that he understood the consequences either, should they find at a later date that they were each ill-suited to the other.

 

Jim had dropped his gaze at some point, and Spock watched the top of his head. Jim’s fingers tightened reflexively every few seconds, a nervous clench around Spock’s forearms. In the silence that Spock seemed unable to break, Jim offered, “I’m not good at relationships; you’ve said as much yourself. I flirt, I sleep around… You should know… I’ve never stayed with someone for more than a few months; I tried, and it just never worked. It’s like I couldn’t do it. I wanted to, with some of them. I always ended up cheating, or just…losing interest. And I’ve…in the interests of full disclosure, I guess, I’ve got a son. He’s four. David. His mother doesn’t want me involved in his life; she doesn’t want him to be anything like me. I’m not really the kind of guy anybody in their right mind would want to try this kind of thing with.” He gathered himself in the inhalation of a deep breath, almost a sigh in reverse, and raised his head again, as if he thought that Spock deserved as much. “And I’m terrified of not being able to change that, and that I’ll hurt you because of it. Like that other Jim hurt his Spock – I could see myself doing something like that to you.”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You have made a point of telling me that I am not my counterpart, and yet you compare yourself to the other James Kirk. Why?”

 

“Because I’ve been in that Spock’s head.”

 

Spock narrowed his eyes at this, but elected not to address this apparent mental contact and the resultant transference of memory and emotion with his captain.

 

Jim went on, his eyes once again rambling elsewhere, oblivious to Spock’s tangential thought. “His Jim was older than me – they didn’t meet until like ten years from now – but what he did…it’s exactly something I’d do. Just… Selek _loved_ him, and that Jim never saw it. Or maybe he did, but it wasn’t enough to stop him going off with other people. I don’t know. He was selfish. All of his life, it was all about what _he_ wanted, and Selek just went along with it like it was a privilege to be in his shadow. Spock, I’m not all that different. I don’t compromise, and I don’t share, and I don’t – ”

 

“No,” Spock told him, mostly just to stop him rambling in this fashion. Jim was not perfect; Spock did not expect him to be. _Kaiidth._ If that characteristic was part of Jim, then so be it. There was no cause for the defamation that Jim seemed intent on subjecting himself to, as if it were meant to defend Spock against him. Everyone had a bad side, a wolf to the sheep. Jim’s good qualities outweighed anything of that sort.

 

Jim took his negation the wrong way, however, and began to withdraw, his fingers going lax and lifting away.

 

“ _No_ ,” Spock repeated, this time with force. He caught at the retreating limbs and held Jim still long enough to make him understand. A thrill of fear made the hairs stand up at the nape of Spock’s neck; he wasn’t sure which of them caused it. Jim’s gaze bore into him, wary the way the bridge crew tended to be when Spock behaved unexpectedly, as if they anticipated him losing control the way he had once before, when he had attacked and attempted to strangle Jim during the crisis with the Narada. Spock tried to will him to understand: he could not ask. Softer this time, nearly a whisper in that tone that Jim had once told him sounded like a growl, he said again, “No.”

 

Finally, Jim seemed to realize that Spock was not denying him, but rather was answering the question he had asked before embarking on the self-deprecating monologue. He nodded, his face somehow at once eager and horrified. Or at least, that was what it looked like to Spock. He wondered at the dichotomy as Jim leaned forward again, back into his space, close enough for Spock to inhale the scent of him.

 

“I don’t know how you do it, sometimes.”

 

Spock blinked his eyes back open, unaware that he had closed them to better revel in the way that Jim smelled. He started to shake his head, confused, and then settled for cocking it to one side.

 

Rather than answer right away, Jim reached up and brushed his thumb over Spock’s cheekbone. “For all that no one’s ever really treated you the way you deserve, you can still just…give. You’re so selfless. I don’t know how you can keep trying like no one ever let you down before.”

 

Without his conscious volition, Spock angled his head farther, as if that vantage point might render Jim’s words more sensical. “I know you. I have experience and observation upon which to base my estimation of your character.”

 

“You really shouldn’t trust me the way you do.”

 

“I have no cause to doubt you. You have never consciously sought to do me harm.”

 

Jim pressed his lips into an uneven line, sucked in against his teeth. “And if I did? If I ever harmed you somehow?”

 

“You would not.”

 

Jim shifted his palm to grasp at a handful of hair behind Spock’s ear. It was rough, but not painful. Spock was more confused than anything else. “This is important,” Jim exhorted. “I can’t promise that I won’t. Do you understand that? I can’t promise, Spock. I have to be the captain first. I have to put the ship before you, and me, and everything else.”

 

Spock watched Jim force eye contact as if it caused him physical pain to be so direct. “If you ever ordered me into harm’s way, it would be because you had no better option. There would be cause, and I would go gladly. I am your second in command; I, too, have a duty to put the ship’s welfare before all other concerns.”

 

“And what if there wasn’t a crisis? What if normal, everyday ship’s business just took precedence?”

 

“You fear…neglect?” Spock could not understand why this concerned Jim so much. Of course ship’s business would take precedence, for both of them. “We are both sworn Starfleet officers; our duties are clear. Why does this trouble you?”

 

Jim made an incredulous sound. “Anything having to do with us…it would come second, Spock.”

 

“Yes,” Spock agreed. The expression on Jim’s face after he said that caused Spock a mild sense of alarm. “Is this not acceptable?”

 

That gave Jim cause to unfocus his gaze as if he were internalizing Spock’s questions. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. I really have no idea. It just seems wrong.”

 

“I see no cause for dissention,” Spock offered. “We are of similar minds concerning the priority which must be given to ship operations.”

 

Jim grimaced.

 

“Perhaps a lack of agreement on the importance of duty contributed to the failure of some of your previous relationships.”

 

Jim’s gaze slid off to one side as he grumbled, “I think you’re giving me too much credit.” He frowned then, but it did not seem to be in response to a negative emotion. He appeared more contemplative than anything, and Spock became aware of the manner in which Jim’s hand had gentled in his hair, and the manner in which he himself had been leaning into it. A moment later, as if the thought had cascaded through Spock and into him, Jim noticed as well. “You’re not cold anymore; the shivering stopped.”

 

Spock merely looked at him.

 

In a moment of abrupt sobriety, Jim told him, “This could be a really big mistake. We could seriously fuck things up for each other.”

 

Spock nodded, and then turned his earlier question against him. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

Jim’s mouth thinned, and his eyes scattered over the edges of Spock’s frame. “…no. No, I don’t.” He started to close the distance between them, and then stopped himself. “Bones thinks…maybe you’re only drawn to me because there’s no one else. And it’s gotten me thinking…is this a choice for you, or is just…biology?”

 

“There is no one else to whom I am drawn,” Spock replied. He suspected that this statement would not be well received, but as a Vulcan, it was the sharpest truth he had.

 

“But if there were, like, a dozen of us lined up, and we all wanted you, and you felt warm with all of us – ”

 

“There are not, and there will never be.”

 

“But if there _were –_ ”

 

“There _cannot_ be,” Spock interrupted. “On Vulcan, there are – ” He broke off abruptly, reset himself, and amended, “On Vulcan-that-was, there were words for this. I do not know how to put them into standard.”

 

Jim studied him for a moment, and then ordered in his captain’s voice, likely without meaning to use it, “Try.”

 

Obeying that tone was ingrained in Spock as a Starfleet officer. “Others could provide warmth, but only you can provide _this_ warmth. _Besu’es. Lafau du trasha._ ” He stopped, because the moment he had lapsed into Vulcan, Jim’s face had changed; he seemed expressionless all of a sudden. “Jim?”

 

“I take colors away when I leave?”

 

Spock felt the capillaries along the dermal layer of his skin dilate and flush his cheeks with extra blood flow. The reaction was involuntary.

 

Jim removed his hands without warning, and kept retreating until he stood at the opposite end of the room, staring into the mirror above his dresser with his back to Spock. Mostly to himself, Jim breathed, “Fuck. What did I do to deserve this?”

 

Although Jim did not seem to want or expect an answer, Spock replied, “Nothing. It simply is.”

 

Jim whirled without warning, and Spock found himself backing across the bed as Jim advanced. He stopped halfway across the room with a visible effort, and then asked, “Do you understand what you’re saying in human terms? Do you know what that means to a human?”

 

Spock shook his head, but tried to explain, “You are _T’hy’la_.”

 

Jim went so still that a temporal anomaly might have engulfed the area where he stood.

 

“It is not something that one can control; it simply is.”

 

“Spock…are you saying that you love me?”

 

“No,” Spock replied. “I am saying that you are _T’hy’la_ to me.” After a moment’s consideration, he added, “They are not the same thing. One is not predicated on the other.”

 

“What the fuck does that mean, exactly?”

 

It occurred to Spock that Jim must consider this an unwarranted punishment of some sort, and that his earlier exhortation was meant to reflect that he did not know what transgression he had committed to cause it. “I was under the impression that you understood this when you spoke of friendship between us. It was you who gave definition to the relationship in both human and Vulcan terms. I see now that my assumptions were in error, and I will take all necessary measures to ensure that it causes you no inconvenience. It need not be a burden to you.”

 

“Alright, just – stop. Stop talking.” Jim held his hand out with his palm facing Spock, the gesture adamant. “I don’t fully understand what you’re trying to say to me, and I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. ‘Cuz that didn’t work out so well the last time. So just don’t, for a minute.”

 

Spock subsided, but he took the opportunity to rearrange himself from the awkward sprawl he had affected when Jim’s temper had manifested. Once he felt balanced again, he stood and set the bedding to rights. Jim only seemed to notice what he was doing after Spock stepped past him to return the extra blankets to their proper place in the closet. A hand brought him up short, and Spock looked down to where Jim’s fingers once again lay clasped over his arm. “Captain?”

 

“Jim,” he corrected, his voice an automatic monotone like programming. He picked a bit at Spock’s shirt, and then took the blankets from him and dropped them into a chair with a lack of care that caused the bottom one to unravel from the neat folds that Spock had pleated into it. Before Spock could comment on it, Jim had stepped back in front of him and Spock only barely stifled a shocked gasp when Jim’s hands cupped his face with force enough to indent the skin. “You are not a burden. Nothing that you feel, or don’t feel, or think is a burden. Do you hear me, Commander?” He shook Spock’s head to emphasize this, a human use of force in the conveyance of emotional import.

 

Spock debated the merits of correcting Jim on his form of address, since he had just enjoined Spock to call him by his given name rather than his title. Instead, he simply said, “Yes, sir.”

 

Jim nodded, the motion absent, and Spock wondered what he meant by it. “Good.” For a cause indiscernible to Spock, Jim leaned forward, their exhalations mingling, and nosed the air near to where his thumb caressed Spock’s cheek. Then he unhanded him in a jarring flurry of motion, snatched the blankets up off the chair, rolled them into a completely haphazard ball of fabric, and tossed them into the closet without watching to see how they fell. “Let’s get McCoy and see about some food. I’m sure it’s clean enough in there by now that we can call the Stewards’ department to finish up. We can tell them you tripped or something.”

 

Spock eyed the ends of the blankets that had flopped out beyond the threshold of the closet, flared his nostrils, and forced himself not to neaten them. Instead, he followed Jim through the shared bathroom into his own quarters.

 

* * * * *

 

“So,” Nyota announced, stepping away from the transport point. “Where do you want to go?”

 

Her voice sounded strange to Spock’s ears, contaminated by an unusual cadence; she was awkward with him. Too much time had passed since they last interacted in any manner not related to the performance of their duties. Or perhaps knowledge of his emotional upset was causing her discomfort.

 

“There are some museums,” Nyota suggested. She looked expectantly back at him from her stance on the sidewalk of Argelius II’s main shore leave destination city. “Or do you want to walk around the shops? We could find you some fresh tea. You must be sick of replicated tea by now.”

 

Was this what he was now reduced to? Inane conversation about inconsequential minutia? Not even Jim had strayed beyond small talk in the two days that it had taken them to reach Argelius II. McCoy had at least tried, but Spock had no interest in the one-sided interrogations that the Doctor seemed to favor of late. “The replicated fare is adequate, but I would not avoid purchasing loose leaves as long as it does not take us out of our way.”

 

“Spock, this is shore leave. We don’t have a schedule to keep.”

 

Spock studied his surroundings, trying to determine the best course of action. He had not wanted to come down to the planet at all, but Nyota had insisted that he ‘get out for a bit.’ As Jim presently had command of beta shift, and Spock had no duties or tasks left with which to occupy himself, he had not seen a reasonable cause to refute her. “There is a tourist center three blocks to the south.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Spock followed when she turned to lead the way through the crowd immediately surrounding the transport hub. He conceded that Nyota was correct about his needing something to do, but he would have preferred a constructive activity, were he to be forced into action solely for action’s sake. That probably explained at least a portion of his discontent at being planetside. As for the remainder…

 

There was a part of him that no longer found Nyota’s company stimulating. This reminded him once again of the differences between Nyota and Jim, and even McCoy. Nyota had learned his language, but not for him; fluency in standard Vulcan was a requirement for a communications officer. Jim and McCoy went out of their ways to educate themselves about Spock’s culture for no other purpose than that it might benefit him. Spock did not mean to imply that Nyota was selfish, but the lack of personal investment in a relationship with him could not be ignored. She was a competent officer, and he bore her no ill will, but she was not the manner of friend that he had once thought her to be.

 

Nyota glanced back, presumably to confirm that he had not wandered off in the crowd. When he caught up to her, she linked her arm in his, an impersonal gesture that was unwelcome nonetheless. “Are you okay?”

 

“I have answered that question seven times already.” Spock waited until the crowd of revelers thinned, and then disentangled himself from Nyota’s grasp. “The tourist center is this way.”

 

“You know, we could just wander.”

 

Spock angled himself to thread between several humanoids all moving in different directions, and then had to wait for Nyota to do the same. “I wish to make the best use of my time here.”

 

“By planning out an itinerary? Just be spontaneous for once. Look, there’s a street fair over there.” Nyota pointed down a side street, beyond which a public square of some sort was filled with tents colored and patterned so brightly that they hurt Spock’s eyes. “And look! That guy over there is selling cotton candy.”

 

Spock paused long enough to peer in the direction she was pointing, and then balked without meaning to. “That vendor lacks hygiene. I would recommend against consuming anything that he is carrying.”

 

Nyota angled herself in what Spock had come to know was confrontation and arch dignity mingled together. “I’m getting some cotton candy. And since you’re my escort, you have to come with me.”

 

After a brief staring contest, Spock capitulated, but not without consenting to throw a wistful glance in the direction of the tourist center. “Very well. Though I believe that at the moment _you_ are _my_ escort, as I am not permitted to leave your company at this time.”

 

“Don’t be a spoil sport, Spock.”

 

In an effort to dispel his irritation, Spock flared his nostrils and neatly avoided Nyota’s attempt to take his arm again. As they approached the public square, and thereby, the vendor, Spock watched him sneeze on his goods, glance about, and then go on hawking as if he had not just turned the spun sugar candy into a biological culture. Nyota stopped at the same time that Spock did, and they looked at each other with identical expressions.

 

Just because he could, Spock asked, “Would you prefer the pink or the blue?”

 

Nyota arched one eyebrow in a manner reminiscent of Spock himself. “Neither, thank you. I’ve lost my appetite.”

 

“Are you certain? I believe the phrase is, ‘my treat’?”

 

“And they say you have no sense of humor.” She gave him a look, and then turned to examine the collection of tents. “It looks like some of these sell teas and spices.”

 

Spock cocked his head to one side and then nodded. “Indeed.”

 

They spent nearly half an hour at a tea tent, and then moved on to several vendors selling jewelry that Nyota wished to peruse. The constant din of the crowd, interspersed with vendors shouting to attract customers and the occasional high-pitched calls of the less humanoid species in the marketplace soon began to wear Spock’s patience thin. He could feel a buzzing in his head somewhere that bode ill, like the tentative stirrings of a migraine. There were too many people pressed all around him, and too many of them had no sense of propriety concerning Vulcans. He took to keeping his hands tucked up in the packages of tea leaves that he had purchased, and at one point, he moved to stand closely enough to Nyota that she shot him an odd look.

 

Spock ignored her and kept his focus on the movement of beings in his immediate vicinity. They appeared to be gathering around a platform in an open space between the tents. As Spock watched, curious, a trio of Deltans stepped up and arranged themselves in what appeared to be opening dance poses. Considering the nature of Argelius II, he was not all that surprised to note that all three dancers were nude.

 

“Spock, what do you think of these?”

 

Without even glancing at Nyota, Spock replied, “They do not compliment your skin tone.” He knew which set of earrings she was holding up to him; he had noted her gaze return to them no less than five times while browsing the offerings at this table. “The turquoise is more flattering.”

 

“Hm.” Nyota turned back to the table and the eager vendor behind it, oblivious to Spock’s distraction and to the performance taking place in the open square. “Maybe the one with purple beads too, then.”

 

“That one was pleasing,” Spock agreed automatically. He tipped his head to one side as the Deltans wove in about each other in a form of interpretive dance. Their movements were not overtly sexual, but neither were they entirely chaste. There was sensuality to the manner in which they twined themselves without actually touching each other. It was fascinating to behold. “I will wait outside.”

 

“Sure, Spock. I’ll just be another minute.”

 

Spock nodded and stepped out from under the tent without anyone really noticing. Two of the Deltans, both of them males, were now lifting the third, the female, into the air between them, only to have her gradually wilt and flow down over the shoulder of one of the males like water overflowing the brim of a cup. Spock navigated the mostly hushed crowd to find a better vantage point, noted the placard advertising the performance troupe’s members, and then focused once again on the performers. The female had left the stage by then, and the remaining males grappled and began to move together, alone before the audience.

 

There was a twitter from the crowd, and while many onlookers paid more avid attention at that point, there were some who turned and left. Spock blinked, his eyes going wide at what could only be described as a simulation of sexual intercourse. The men fought in stylized, slowly artistic movements, but the way they moved indicated that while they behaved toward each other with violence, they were also…copulating. Not literally, but there was no doubt that the audience was meant to infer a sexual joining.

 

“Oh, how horrid,” someone exclaimed, near enough that Spock heard him clearly over the din of the marketplace. “It’s right out in public!”

 

Spock glanced aside and found a Kreetassan glaring at the Deltans with distaste. He would have ignored the comment, given the easily offended sensibilities of the Kreetassan people, except that the alien noticed Spock’s glance and sidled closer.

A conversation with one of this race was the last thing Spock wanted right now; he was not conversant enough in their culture to be certain of not giving offense. In the hope of avoiding this, Spock faced the platform again in time to watch one of the males slide down of the body of the other and land on his knees with his face pressed to the hipbone of his dance partner, and his fingers splayed across the other man’s ribs. Spock swallowed and tried to control the blood flow in his body so that his cheeks would not flush.

 

“Ah, a Vulcan,” the Kreetassan greeted. “Your people understand the importance of polite discretion.”

 

Spock looked to his left in a frankly desperate bid to attract Nyota’s attention, but she appeared to be busy haggling over the turquoise and purple earrings. He shifted to regard the Kreetassan only because he had to, and inclined his head. “I am gratified that you believe so.”

 

Up on the platform, the male on his knees had tipped his head back to bare his throat, while the other pressed against him and executed a contortionist descent to join him, curving around and over and through the limbs of the kneeling male as he did so.

 

“Tch.” The Kreetassan growled something in his own language that appeared to taste of disgust on his tongue, if the manner of curl to his lip were anything to go by. “Is this common on Federation worlds?”

 

“Some,” Spock replied. He offered nothing further in the hope of discouraging continued conversation. The Deltan dancers had moved into a slow rotation, their movements controlled and intense for the sensuality of enacting such a display of stylized violence in forced slow motion, one rising as the other fell, wrapped in each other’s limbs the whole time though their bodies never aligned. Rather, each seemed always to be attempting escape from his opponent, and failing.

 

“Obscene,” The Kreetassan insisted, his voice a hiss that caused others in the audience to glance at him with ire.

 

“May I suggest that if you find the display offensive, you remove yourself from it?” Spock ignored the spluttering beside him, which thankfully receded as the Kreetassan moved away. The Deltan males seemed to have reached the end of the dance, for they now held their positions in stillness, one splayed out on the ground in a sexualized position of defeat, his hand still grasping the calf of his standing partner who had turned away not in victory, but in yet another pose of defeat, head bowed and hand raised to block his visage from the pleading eyes of his fallen companion.

 

The crowd erupted in applause, startling Spock from his absorption in the scene. He turned around, intending to see if Nyota had concluded her purchase. Less than a step through the pivot, he froze because he felt…unwell. Self-assessment revealed the problem, and his eyes widened in an involuntary reaction. He did not even attempt to quell the emotional response. A surreptitious scan of his immediate vicinity revealed that he had escaped notice by the various patrons and revelers moving about in the wake of the performance. This was fortunate.

 

Spock regrouped, clutched his tea packages more tightly, and made his way back to the jewelry tent to inform Nyota that he wished to return to the ship immediately. Something in the contours of his face, which he had thought configured to his normal expression, betrayed him, and they departed without argument, the vendor angry at the interrupted haggle. Nyota appeared concerned more than anything else, but she did not demand an explanation, which was just as well. Spock had no idea what to tell her if she had.

 

* * * * *

 

“I thought McCoy took you _off_ duty.”

Spock did not glance up from the electron microscope display, though he did shift his posture to indicate attentiveness to Jim’s presence. “As I am not conducting any activities which qualify as ship’s business, I am not in violation of the Doctor’s orders.”

 

“Funny,” Jim quipped.

 

His measurements concluded, Spock straightened and moved to record his findings. “I was not aware that anything I just said could be construed as humorous.”

 

“What’s funny,” Jim said, his voice taking on a hard edge, “is that this looks an awful lot like work of some sort.”

 

Spock took down some figures, considered, and then began constructing an equation to describe his observations. “I am engaged in personal research unrelated to my duties.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Jim agreed. “So you’re off duty, we’re in orbit around a prime shore leave destination, and you decide that the best use of your time is to hole up in a lab and conduct ‘personal research’ that just coincidentally happens to bear a striking resemblance to analyzation of biological and mineral samples left over from our last planetary survey. That, Mister Spock, is ‘funny.’”

 

Spock raised an eyebrow at his computer display. “In this context, ‘funny’ is meant to indicate an anomaly, not amusement. Interesting.” He returned to his work. “If you will excuse me, Captain, I must finish this calculation before the sample degrades.”

 

“You know what I find interesting? Whenever you’re pissy and want to be left alone, you suddenly manifest this perfect Vulcan persona. It’s a horrible tell, Mister Spock.”

 

“I am simply engaged in research – ” Spock allowed the captain to remove the stylus from his hand and shut off the monitor.

 

Jim’s voice lowered and roughened about the edges. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

 

“As I am no longer permitted to be outside of the company of another person, and as I am required to take all meals and rest periods in the presence of yourself or Doctor McCoy, I can hardly credit that I am successfully avoiding anyone.”

 

“Usually, you’d just tell me that avoidance would be illogical.”

 

Spock took a deep breath, realized that he had meant to sigh with it, and forced himself to let the air out in a more controlled manner. “As you say. I have been avoiding you.”

 

Jim perched himself on the edge of the counter where Spock had been working, and crossed his arms. “Huh. I admit, I didn’t think you’d give in so quickly.”

 

Spock cut his gaze sideways, to the outer line of Kirk’s profile. “It is not yet time for the evening meal. Are you not still on duty?”

 

“I took the afternoon off. Captain’s prerogative.”

 

Spock took that to mean that Doctor McCoy finally made good on his threat to forcibly remove Jim from the bridge in order to ensure that he took sufficient rest while the ship orbited a friendly planet in non-hostile space. “And is the captain’s blood pressure reading once again causing Doctor McCoy to make unattractive faces at you every time he sees you?”

 

“You’ve got a lot of sass for a man in your position.” Jim pushed off of the countertop and away.

 

“My position is seated.” Spock swiveled his chair to watch him pace about the lab, peering into secondary rooms to ensure that they were alone. He must have sent Ensign Chambers out the moment he walked through the door. It irritated Spock that he would interfere with another’s duties in this manner, without sufficient cause.

 

Aside from cutting Spock a wry look, Jim ignored his comeback. “I thought we could head down to Argelius for a few days. Uhura said you didn’t seem keen on the city, but there’s parkland to the north, and I haven’t been camping since before the Academy. What do you think?”

 

“What I think is that I am perturbed by the apparent frequency with which you and the lieutenant – and Doctor McCoy, for that matter – discuss me while I am not present.”

 

Jim frowned. “We’re worried about you.”

 

In an insuppressible fit of pique, Spock stood and retrieved the stylus that Jim had placed beyond his reach.

 

“Spock, come on.”

 

“I am tired of this,” Spock snapped. He could feel a flush of anger coloring his face sage. “I do not require coddling.”

 

“We aren’t – ”

 

“You are! You look at me with apprehension for my reactions, and whisper behind my back about the state of my self control. You constantly seek to distract me, and you – you _humor_ my outbursts under the mistaken belief that I will not notice. How exactly is this state of affairs to be defined, if not by the word ‘coddling’?”

 

Jim straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall, and Spock could not determine if he did so from a rise of feelings, or out of fear that Spock had advanced him, if only by several feet. “Whoa. Okay, what is this? Are you alright?”

 

Spock checked himself, because Jim’s posture indicated an urgent concern rather than the emotions that Spock had first attributed to him. With effort, Spock subsided. “Yes. I am fine.”

 

“Fine,” Jim echoed. “You never say that; it’s too imprecise.”

 

Disgusted, Spock returned to his lab stool and plonked himself down on it. He was shaking again. To himself, he muttered, “This is intolerable.” Jim had approached from behind without Spock noticing until he was nearly upon him. Spock stilled the instinct to startle with force enough that it felt like a seizing of limbs. Cautious fingers trailed over his left shoulder and clamped down briefly. Spock fought the instinct to hiss at the threat implicit in doing such a thing to a Vulcan.

 

“Did something happen?” Jim smoothed his hand away and moved to once again perch against the lab table, in Spock’s periphery. “When you were on the planet, I mean. Uhura had you two signed out for the day, but you barely stayed down there for an hour.”

 

Spock rubbed at his temple and ignored the inquiry in favor of pulling over the compuslate with his interrupted computations on it. “I do not wish to discuss this further.”

 

Jim smeared a hand over his face with a theatrical groan, and Spock pretended to be absorbed in the figures on the screen. “Would it kill you to just talk to me for a minute?”

 

“If I answered in the affirmative, would you desist?”

 

“You know me better than that.” Jim plucked at the stylus again, and Spock snatched it back before he could move beyond reach. In retaliation, Jim grabbed his wrist and held it still in the space between them. They both watched the tremor running visibly through Spock’s fingers and up his forearm. “Spock…”

 

Spock yanked himself free and backed off the stool, away from him. “I formally request leave to return to Vulc – to the – to New Vulcan. The colony.”

 

Jim stared hard at him, his face more the mask of the captain than of Spock’s friend. “You can’t. Leaving the ship could harm you.”

 

“I am aware of the risk. Will you grant my request or no?”

 

“Tell me why you want it and I might.”

 

“I have sufficient leave time acquired.”

 

“That’s not the issue,” Jim returned. “Do you need something? Your father, a Healer? We can have someone come here. It’s not worth the risk that you’re still dependant on the minds of the crew.”

 

Spock flared his nostrils and turned away, but the scent of Jim’s sweat still reached him. He must have come from the gym. “I need rest. Surely, this is plausible in light of recent events.”

 

“Plausible, yes.” The rustling caused by Jim’s clothing reached Spock’s ears, and he stiffened in anticipation of an approach. Jim must have noticed this, because he came no closer than he already had. “Tell me what’s going on.”

 

Spock allowed his the motion of his head to waver between denial and something more ambiguous.

 

“What happened on the planet? Why did you came back so quickly?”

 

A sigh worked its way from Spock’s chest without his permission. His head ached, but not in ways that medication or biofeedback could control. Jim would never let him alone about this; he was like a lematya with prey in its teeth. And since they shared a bunk to allow for the Doctor’s orders that Spock not be left alone in quarters even to sleep, Jim would be certain to keep him up all night via theatrical sighs and copious amounts of sulking. And he did have a right to know, did he not? Perhaps. “I became aroused while watching a performance of Deltan dance art.”

 

Silence, and then Jim began to laugh almost hysterically.

 

Affronted, Spock drew himself to his full height and rounded back to face the captain. Jim had doubled over and was obviously trying hard to at least decrease the volume of his mirth. “This is not humorous,” Spock snapped.

 

This seemed to have opposite the desired effect, because Jim merely laughed harder and fell off the edge of the lab table. He ended up leaning on the stool that Spock had vacated, gulping in air to calm himself and wiping his face on his sleeve. “Yeah,” Jim countered, his voice pitchy and threaded with hiccups. “Yeah, it is. Okay, no!” He seemed to be reprimanding himself by that, and in the same breath, he obtained a degree of composure more like that of a starship captain than an adolescent. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just – ” He snickered again as if it were beyond himself to cease his amusement. And then he grinned fondly at Spock. “God, I love you.” Immediately after the words tumbled out, his eyes went wide with horrified shock.

 

Spock’s head fell to one side automatically, his own concerns forgotten.

 

Jim cleared his throat and made a show of composing his outward appearance, as if the inner plane could be made to mirror it. “Forget I said that.”

 

Plainly, Spock replied, “No.”

 

Jim’s eyes slid shut in response to some sort of emotional reaction that Spock could not identify. “Fuck. Seriously. I never said it.”

 

Spock stared at him, at the sick expression on his face as if he had eaten something foul, and clenched his teeth briefly. His jaw muscles twitched in reaction. “As you wish.” Spock picked up his compuslate, spared Jim’s back a last glance, and then headed toward the exit.

 

“Okay, so seriously, what’s the big – Spock? Where the hell are you going? Hey!”

 

With Jim’s protests muffled behind the door that hissed shut in his wake, Spock paused and allowed himself a brief moment with eyes closed to recompose his outward demeanor. Unfortunately, it also allowed Jim sufficient time to come barreling out of the science lab in his wake. Spock ignored him and headed toward the turbolift.

 

“Commander!”

 

It was fortunate that the corridor was deserted apart from them; it would have been highly unprofessional for a junior crew member to witness the captain chasing him down the hallway, obviously fresh from some sort of disagreement.

 

“Dammit, I’m talking to you!” Jim’s footsteps picked up pace, and without meaning to, Spock just…snapped a little bit.

 

He whirled just as Jim came within range, and shoved. They ended up against the wall, and Jim made a strangled sound at the way Spock smashed up against him, compressing his diaphragm and forcing the air from his lungs. Jim’s eyes went wide, and Spock, beyond reasoning at that exact moment with the heat of Jim’s body pressed so hard against him, bared his teeth and growled low in the back of his throat.

 

The scent of Jim’s exertion permeated the air all around them, a bitter soup of adrenaline and hormones and confusion. “Oh, shit.”

 

The thread of panic in those words were enough that Spock pressed his lips back over his teeth, but he could still feel the rumble in his chest where the worst of his instincts seemed too snarled up in the moment to recede entirely. Spock flared his nostrils at the sudden, sharp scent of fear, the hind brain responses of the human amygdala, and pressed closer. Jim flinched at the way Spock’s knee slipped between his own to brace against the bulkhead, and tried to twist a hand free. He could not; Spock had twisted both of them up, one crushed against the wall and the other trapped between them in a tangle from where Spock’s forearm braced across Jim’s throat to hold him still.

 

He realized the suggestiveness of his position so slowly that his own behavior did not even shock him, and it occurred to him that he should step back. Immediately. But Jim was so warm. At the helpless squirm of Jim’s body, an attempt to perhaps loosen his hold, Spock clamped down and pressed harder. He could feel himself shaking, but the tremors of earlier had given way to a fine buzz. It was almost pleasant. Anticipatory.

 

Jim froze when Spock shifted his grip, his eyes glazing over momentarily. Then their focus sharpened on Spock’s face, slits of blue, as if he had realized something vital, which he likely had. Vital like the way that Spock had pressed into him. Like the tumescence that he could no doubt feel below, pressed against Jim where their hips met at angles to each other. “It’s _not_ funny,” Jim finally agreed, if belatedly.

 

Spock sniffed at him, curious, and then it hit him all at once, what he was doing with his captain shoved up against the bulkhead in plain view of anyone who might happen by. He unhanded Jim in a flurry and flung himself away, back until he bumped against the opposite wall. Its support was a welcome thing just then. He tried to breathe evenly, but the movement of his chest felt tight like unaccustomed panic, and he wasn’t sure how to dispel or control it. Desperate for anything that might act as a grounding agent, Spock braced the heel of his palm against his thigh, and then moved it up to the crease of his hip because it seemed more stable there, holding his myriad pieces together.

 

It took about a minute for Jim to straighten and push away from the wall. Thankfully, he did not attempt to approach, but simply beckoned. “Spock. Come with me. I want McCoy to take a look at you.”

 

The dispassionate calm of Jim’s voice, something more than captain but less than friend, served to rouse Spock back toward himself. He felt his chest loosen enough for a deep breath, but that merely served to send his heart into some sort of paroxysm in his side. It felt like a monumental effort and a heady release all at once to nod, and give himself over. Because he didn’t know what else to do, and Jim always seemed to have at least some of the answers – enough to act on, anyway, and do right by it.

 

Spock muddled his way upright and away from the wall, and followed Jim without any real care for where he was leading him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS IN THE END NOTES. The warnings are spoilery, but for those of you with triggers, please check them out before reading. Otherwise, caveat lector.

He had attacked his captain.

 

Spock laced his fingers together between his knees and willed himself to stop shaking, his gaze riveted to the way the normal greenish hue to the creases of his knuckles faded to white. He did not understand why Jim had brought him to sickbay, and not the brig.

 

Low voices sounded from the other side of the medbay where McCoy was running a medical tricorder over the faint purpling bruises that Spock had left on Jim’s wrists to ensure that the bones were not cracked, sprained or broken. Spock recalled sitting similarly once on Vulcan, though not in a medical center. His mother had lifted him up onto the counter in the kitchen, setting him down in the midst of bowls and cutting boards of half-prepared food. Spock’s wrist had not been broken, only strained enough to require wrapping. No matter how rationally Spock had tried to explain that it had been an accident, Sybok was put out of the house that evening.  It had been the first of many such minor banishments, each lasting days and weeks at a time. Spock still did not understand why his mother’s eyes had filled with unshed tears, and his father had stoicly left the room, every time Spock had asked for Sybok to be forgiven and permitted to come home during those absences. Surely, he had though back then, no transgression could be severe enough to lead a father to forsake his own child, especially one in need of assistance. Even at the age of four, Spock had understood that Sybok needed help. What he had not been able to comprehend was why no one seemed willing to give it to him. Was that not what clan was for?

 

Spock refocused himself in the present as Jim slid off the biobed that McCoy had shoved him onto, and pulled his uniform shirt back into place. Of course, Jim had been forced to explain the source of this injuries – Spock had heard him attempt to dissemble at first, and then sigh at the contradiction of a blank scowl on McCoy’s face before providing a proper explanation. Surely, Spock would now be arrested for assaulting a superior officer.

 

McCoy heaved a long exhalation that might have been a sigh under other circumstances, and after glaring at Jim – to which he received Jim’s purposefully dense shrug and an exaggerated widening of the eyes – he crossed the room to where Spock waited with false and crumbling calm. The degree of…of _sympathy_ on McCoy’s face was alarming. “Spock, I need to take some blood so I can run a full hormone panel.”

 

Spock allowed his eyes to slide closed. He wanted to go home so badly, it was like his fifth year all over again, sitting in his Terran aunt’s front room and listening to her tell his uncle how horrible it was having to host Amanda and Spock when Amanda should have wed a human and Spock should be in a laboratory because no one knew for certain that his hybrid body was not a breeding ground for viruses that could jump between the two species that comprised him, and how could anyone conscience just letting him out where other children would be exposed to him. He wanted to be small again so that he could fit into Sybok’s arms, and know that even though Sybok himself was not happy or well, he cared for what Spock had to endure every day as a halfbreed in one of the oldest, most conservative clans on Vulcan, and silently wished that he could share and take that pain away from Spock so that Spock could smile again sometimes like he used to.

 

“It won’t take long,” McCoy added, his voice so gentle and unlike the normal cadence of it when addressing Spock that it seemed obscene coming from him now. “I, um…I’m guessing I don’t have to explain why – ”

 

“No,” Spock confirmed before McCoy could finish that sentence. He did not want to talk about it. He wanted to be somewhere less bright, less open. Alone. To facilitate this goal, he held out his arm for McCoy to draw a blood sample, and then remained quiescent while McCoy took several scans and tested his peripheral reflexes.

 

“Alright,” McCoy finally announced. “Sit tight while I put these through the lab.”

 

Absently, Spock replied by rote, “My posture is not tight; it is ergonomically correct.”

 

McCoy nodded. “I might even believe that if you weren’t clenched up like a man waitin’ for a prostate exam.”

 

Spock blinked, then angled his head to watch McCoy disappear out the door.

 

With his hands in his pockets on the other side of the room, Jim asked, “Do you even have a prostate?”

 

“All male mammals which employ seminal secretion as part of the reproductive process possess an approximation of the prostate gland.” Spock watched Jim smile and wondered why he seemed to find Spock’s pedantry so endearing. “You are not angry,” he divined.

 

Jim scoffed and shrugged his shoulders, though Spock could tell that he had balled his hands into fists in his pockets. “Of course not.”

 

Spock nodded and looked away. “Your leniency with my behavior is not justification for failing to place me under arrest, or at least under guard. I attacked you.” What if he lost control again? Jim did not seem to appreciate the danger of the situation. Leaving him free like this was not safe. He shifted where he sat in a vain effort to relieve the discomfort that resided deep in the tissue of his lower back, just above his coccyx. It ached like a bruise, inflamed and tender. Were he to touch it, he knew that he would find the area warmer than the surrounding tissue. He resolutely did not touch it.

 

Again, Jim snorted, though the quality of the sound was less flippant that time. “That was hardly an attack, Spock. And anyway, I don’t think you could help it.”

 

The high lighting of sickbay irritated his already strained eyes, and Spock clenched them shut in the hopes that it might relieve the gritty burn of dry corneas. An abrupt anger stole through him, as in the science lab, and he snapped, “Stop making excuses for me.”

 

Jim straightened at the hostility in Spock’s voice, but he neither advanced nor retreated this time. “I really don’t want to fight with you again. Not right now, anyway. You’re not yourself.”

 

“That is the exactly why this situation cannot continue.” Spock would have educated him further, but an insidious wave of heat flushed through his body and then left him again, taking whatever he had meant to say with it. He clutched at his side as his heart stuttered a bit, and then tried to blink away the strange glitter that stole into his vision, rendering the edges of objects unnaturally sharp like fractals. A moment later, he realized that he had been holding his breath, and released it in a huff that sounded pained more than anything else. His vision swam after that and eventually righted itself, and he gave a few shallow pants before wresting his body back under what paltry amount of control was left to him. He felt shivery for a moment, as if he had run himself to the point of muscular collapse, and wiped his sweating palms against his pantlegs.

 

From the other side of the room came the sound of Jim sighing, and he plodded across the room on heavy feet to boost himself up on the edge of the biobed beside Spock. “It’ll be fine,” Jim murmured. It was not clear whether he meant those words for Spock’s ears or for his own. There was no way for Jim to know that for certain, but Spock no longer pointed that kind of thing out to him when it was not necessary to do so. Jim called it defeatist, and he had told Spock repeatedly that he did not appreciate that attitude on his ship. Jim believed that it only served to crush hope, and no matter how often Spock explained that he only meant to be realistic, Jim saw the difference between the two motivations, but none between the results.

 

Instead, Spock looked down to regard the pale arch of his knuckles. His…groin felt full, but he could do nothing to control the slight swelling of tissue there. Most of his biofeedback controls and mental exercises had failed him. He still had his willpower, at least - that stubborn streak of human defiance that had caused Sarek such frustration and disappointment during Spock's childhood. Though Spock did not want to admit it, he could feel that dwindling as well. At least the tumescence was not as pronounced as he understood it should be – or _would_ be, at some point in the near future – but the increased blood flow caused the tissue to become more sensitive, and he could not manage to remove his notice from the unnatural plumpness at the apex of his thighs. Even though he knew it to be illogical, he feared moving too much because it would cause the fabric of his trousers to shift against it, and he did not want to encourage it any further than his errant biology already had.

 

Jim glanced at him, lifted his brows, and then followed the line of his sight down. He twitched and averted his gaze. “It’s not so bad. No one will even notice. Unless they’re staring, I mean. Which I wasn’t.”

 

Spock swallowed the hollow lump in his throat and turned his head to look left, away from Jim. He could feel that buzz beneath his skin again, and he knew that something related to it had lent an unusually feral cast to his expression: eyes just that slightest bit too dark and narrowed, pupils constricted, mouth too tight, and his breathing shallow. The enforced stillness inherent in remaining seated agitated him in a way it should not, and his already short temper seemed to fray by fractions the longer he sat in such close proximity to Jim’s open warmth. He wanted to pace, or run – fight something, break something – _do_ something to burn off the excess energy before it unraveled him altogether. Instead, he gnashed his teeth and trembled and analyzed the vigor with which his skin crawled.

 

“So, I’m, um…curious.”

 

Spock couldn’t help but turn his head far enough to eye Jim sidelong. Seeing Jim act nervous like this was such a rare occurrence.

 

“You seem, like, really uncomfortable. And not like squirmy-hiding-a-boner uncomfortable.”

 

There was even a sheen of sweat on Jim’s palms. Fascinating. Spock wanted to lick it off. It would likely taste of salt, and maybe of metal from the iron in his blood. The moment Spock realized that he was staring at the fidgety intertwine of Jim’s fingers, he shook himself into looking elsewhere. Jim had said something incomprehensible again – colloquial Terran Standard. Spock hardly cared anymore about learning the new term.

 

Oblivious – or at least seemingly so – Jim pressed, “Does it hurt or something? Or…you said it was like being sick once. You know. Arousal.”

 

It was like allowing oneself to be licked by torch flames, or perhaps a bit like a serious case of food poisoning. “It is not entirely pleasant.”

 

“Not pleasant, how? I mean, won’t you get any…any pleasure out of it at all?”

 

Spock swallowed, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth; he seemed to be salivating for no apparent reason. “I am uncertain as to which comparison would be best drawn.”

 

“Try,” Jim said. It was barely more than a word, less than a request. Unusual, for Jim, to not simply order Spock to elaborate.

 

Rather than cede to his request and tell him that the closest approximation he had in his experience was the encounter with Ta’lan, and the invasiveness of being forced to arousal against his will, Spock told him, “There is a pervasive ache throughout my body, such as when one overexerts oneself, or overuses certain muscle groups.” He couldn’t look at Jim at all for the mortification of both speaking aloud on the subject, and experiencing it at the same time. “Parts of my body feel strained and bloated.” Parts of his body were acting without his consent. He felt himself tensing to break at the urge, the compulsion, to do things he didn't even really want to do. Things like lick his captain's hands and pin him to the floor and scent mark him...tear his clothes off and maybe kill him for tresspassing in Spock's territory.

 

Unnecessarily, Jim remarked, “Yeah. That sounds unpleasant.”

 

Spock indicated his agreement through silence, and then asked what he should have asked the moment McCoy left the room. “Did I injure you?”

 

“Just some bruising,” Jim assured him, his mouth smiling while other parts of his face seemed in opposition to the expression. He held up one hand to show Spock the faint purpling marks on one wrist caused by the excessively hard grip of Spock’s fingers in the corridor.

 

Spock looked away from the injury he had caused. “I apologize. And I reiterate that you should put me on report for attacking a superior officer.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, Spock.”

 

Before Spock could argue that his suggestion was both logical and in accordance with Starfleet regulations, the shivering started up again, and he gripped the edge of the biobed as if that could serve to lessen the force of it. He swallowed a few times in an effort to relieve the sudden dryness of his throat, but that only led to excess salivation and a sharp flash of nausea.

 

“…fuck.”

 

Jim and Spock looked up in unison at the invective. It had not been loud, but in the unusual hush of the sickbay, McCoy’s voice carried clearly through to them from the lab. Less than a minute later, they heard McCoy repeat himself at a slightly higher pitch. Spock wondered at what point the sick emotion settled within his abdomen would lead to physical illness, if ever; perhaps this kind of thing merely became worse without resolution. This must be panic – not the sudden-onset type caused by a shock or an emergency situation, but the slow kind – the kind that fed on the innards and festered like an abscess, untreated.

 

“Well,” Jim muttered to no one in particular. “I guess that’s that.” He glanced at Spock sitting hunched beside him, no doubt flushed far more green than was healthy, and repeated his inane reassurance of, “It’ll be fine.”

 

Spock wanted to ignore him because he had grown sick and weary of false platitudes like that over the course of the past three days, but he could not. Jim’s warmth and the vibrancy of him rendered his presence too glaringly obvious to overlook, even as a farce. Spock inched closer to him by increments, helpless to prevent the desire to simply exist in immediate proximity to his being, trying not to attract Jim’s notice. It was not that he wanted to be closer to Jim – quite the opposite. But something within him could _feel_ Jim, and the answer of him, whatever the question might have been. That part of him kept hijacking various muscle groups when Spock’s diligence waned, or his attention strayed as it inevitably must when the heat coursing through his blood bordered on the edge of madness.

 

Spock should have known that his attempt at subterfuge would be in vain; Jim knew him too well. After a few minutes of not drawing attention to the manner in which Spock struggled against himself, drawing near and then retreating, leaning close and then jerking back, Jim braced a hand on the edge of the biobed and scooted over so that his left side bumped up all along Spock’s right. He cast a speculative look at Spock from the corner of his eye. That easy, soft smile that Jim seemed to reserve only for him materialized on his face as if it had been submerged just beneath the first dermal layer, waiting for a safe moment to surface.

 

Spock swallowed, and his eyelids grew heavy at the effervescence of _warmfriendsafe_ that welled up in him at the instigation of Jim’s touch. It evoked remembrances of chess games in dim quarters after hours; sharing meals and tea, and brandy that made Spock’s nose itch; pressing close under cover on away missions and going numb at the sight of the other’s blood; meeting eyes across the bridge when they both coincidentally look up at the same time. Warm blankets offered in lieu of physical comfort, occupational propinquity given as an inadequate substitute for the more personal touch of a friend. That smile embodied the promise of all the things that Jim had ever offered him, including the hidden things that Jim kept in reserve because he probably never thought Spock would want them, or else didn’t know how to offer any more than Spock did.

 

After these images paraded in sequence through Spock’s head, Jim nodded as if in confirmation of something. Surely, the timing of it was coincidence; he could not have seen Spock’s thoughts, not with any degree of clarity. Nevertheless, a measure of Jim’s tension bled out of him. Spock could feel him relax, if only slightly, by the gradual slump of Jim’s body against his. He wanted to hum at the sensation of it, but he refrained. As it was, his heart calmed to a more normal, rhythmic cadence in his side. Spock imagined that he could feel the rapid thump of it through Jim’s skin, as if the organ were inside him rather than Spock.

 

McCoy rounded the door panel with an excess of movement and noise just as Spock managed to uncoil a few trembling-tense muscles. “Alright, folks. Listen up.”

 

Spock started and scrambled sideways to remove himself from physical contact with Jim.

 

McCoy raised an eyebrow at the obvious retreat, but ignored it. He jerked his head in Jim’s direction and asked Spock, “Should I throw him out? It’s not his business unless you want it to be.”

 

Spock chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before he could stop himself, but controlling the old habit, something suppressed since his childhood, seemed beyond his capabilities now. He could see Jim turn in his periphery to look at him, waiting. Spock could not imagine how it mattered at this point; Jim had obviously worked out the problem based on evidence at hand. “I have no preference.”

 

McCoy nodded, then told Jim, “Why don’t you wait in my office.”

 

Normally, Jim argued when McCoy ordered him to do things like that. This time, he simply nodded and left the room without a backwards glance.

 

Once Jim was out of earshot, McCoy sighed and pulled over a stool. He perched himself right in front of Spock as if to force his notice and attention. Their knees came to a height, separated by perhaps a foot of dead space. Without preamble, he said, “You probably already know what I found.”

 

“Your choice of invective seemed apt to the occasion.”

 

It took a moment for McCoy to catch his implication, and then he chuffed as if the laugh took him by surprise. “Why, Spock, you big faker. If I’m not mistaken, that was a joke.”

 

Spock stared at him; it had been no such thing. Humans often mistook his observations for humor, however, especially in tense situations; he was accustomed to it. “You are mistaken.”

 

“Oh.” McCoy’s face turned pensive and a bit discerning before it gave way to his usual abrasive bedside manner. “Well. Among other things,” McCoy went on, “the number of active vasopressin receptors in your brain has nearly tripled. You’re basically swimmin’ in a soup of sex hormones from both sides of your genetic lineage. More Vulcan than human, of course, but there’s quite a bit of testosterone mixed in with the Vulcan androgens. It’s probably making you feel a bit queasy. I imagine that will pass once your body gets used to it.”

 

Spock gave a wordless nod in the human fashion only because continuing to stare at McCoy or dropping his eyes to the floor without otherwise acknowledging him would be interpreted poorly. There was nothing which needed to be said.

 

As if he could see the distress written plain on Spock’s face – and at this point, he very well might have – McCoy promised, “We’re going to do anything we have to do to get you through this.”

 

Spock blinked and lifted his head to stare past McCoy’s shoulder. “What would that entail, exactly?”

 

McCoy shifted on the stool and rubbed a few knuckles against his forehead. “I don’t have the faintest idea. But I’ll think of something.” He took a breath and chuckled, but there was nothing of mirth to the sound, and Spock wondered what it was supposed to signify. “Spock…” He looked up, and there was a sickly sort of smile contorting one side of his mouth. He started to say something, lost the thread of it, and then shook his head and looked away.

 

Spock recognized that emotion, finally, and assured him, “You need not apologize for any perceived oversight. I find no fault against you.” The discomfort in his body prompted him to a restless shift where he sat, hoping to relieve it and return himself to his prior state of physical irritation. He froze when he realized that where before there had been only swelling, now he felt humidity and a definite, if slight, secretion of his natural lubrication. It was utterly appalling.

 

McCoy seemed not to have noticed, to Spock’s shameful if heartfelt silent gratitude, as he had once again ducked his head to rub his thumb between his eyes. “Easy for you to say,” McCoy grumbled. “I’m a doctor. It’s my job to find these things before they hit critical mass. But that’s neither here nor there right now; it’s not your job to absolve me.” His eyes lifted out from behind his hand and traveled over Spock as if he could categorize and analyze him with the proficiency of a medical tricorder on sight alone. Then he scooted forward and off the stool, careful in the cramped space not to touch Spock. “I’m gonna get you something to calm you down, and then we can talk about options – how you want to handle this.”

 

It took Spock a moment, his focus teetering on the edge of the present, to realize that he had dug his fingernails into the backs of his own hands. He also could not breathe correctly, so perhaps McCoy was wise to seek medical intervention for him. But McCoy was leaving the room, and surely a respiratory unit was indicated for this? He verified that there was one on the shelf beside his biobed, then watched McCoy step into the corridor and beckon to someone out of sight.

 

“Stay with him a minute. I need to go down to ship’s stores.”

 

Jim edged into view, his gaze darting once over McCoy’s shoulder to meet Spock’s, and then away again. “What for?”

 

“Just…pills. For his…Vulcan thing, okay? Just – dammit, I don’t gotta answer to you on medical issues. Now go sit with him until I get back, and make sure he doesn’t try to leave.”

 

McCoy elbowed Jim out of his way and propelled him into the treatment room in the same maneuver, then palmed the door panel to seal them inside. Spock thought he heard a door lock engage, but with the constant rush of blood in his ears and the calamity of his thoughts, he couldn’t be sure that he actually heard anything at all.

 

Jim wiped his hands on his trousers, made an awkward gesture at the room around them, and said, “You okay?”

 

Of course not. And now he could smell Jim again, and the warmth was like a siren’s call that he couldn’t hearken to because he’d never be free of it if he did – _Jim_ would never be free of it; they would wreck themselves. He was tired of being cold, but at least the cold was familiar. The cold couldn’t abandon him, or die or leave or be taken away, or tell him in one breath that he was loved just to take it back in the very next because it wasn’t meant to have been said. Spock looked away, and then down at his hands.

 

“Okay, so…how do we handle this? I mean, do you need to just, like…Jesus, I don’t even know. This…pon farr…thing… What do I need to do?”

 

Spock glanced up to where Jim toyed uneasily with the gold braid on his sleeve. “You need not feel obligated to act.”

 

“Not obligated? Spock, you’re my friend! I can’t just let you... Besides, the ship needs you.” Jim’s manner became flippant, though it retained an edge of mania that betrayed something else entirely. “And I don’t want to have to break in some other, boring first officer who’ll get pissy about doing half my paperwork for me.”

 

Ironic. Spock had wanted to remain on the Enterprise because the thought of a forced mating to one who served him out of obligation or duty turned his stomach. He had thought that Jim was different – Jim had _said_ he was different. All of their conversations about assisting each other when in need implied some motivation other than pity or obligation. Spock had evidently been mistaken. A monetary transaction would be preferable to this. Jim had perhaps spoken more true than either of them had realized when he had told Spock that tying the continuance of his career on the Enterprise to a sexual need of Jim was a form of blackmail.

 

“Look, we can work out terms afterwards. I won’t force you into a relationship or anything, and I won’t ask for, like, compensation or something stupid like that. We can stay just the way we are, if that’s what you want. This doesn’t have to ruin our careers or mess up our lives, just… You need to get through this. And then you can find somebody better later.”

 

“I do not want better.”

 

The words were out before Spock could stop them, born partially of affront at Jim’s entire speech but more of simple truth, and he felt his heart rate stutter into an uneven rhythm for too many breathless seconds before settling. A sinking feeling opened in the pit of his stomach, sharp and acidic like an ember fanned in his abdomen. It could have been a flash of panic, but was likely something more ambiguous than that. Spock grunted at the stab of pain and clenched a fist over it, illogical as the motion was; it could not help, and it served no purpose to move for motion’s sake alone. Another emotional crutch that he could no longer suppress.

 

“I still have time to return to Vulcan,” Spock informed him, still hunched over his lap, and then he had to amend yet again, “The Vulcan colony – New Vulcan. I will not inconvenience you further.”

 

For a moment, Jim did nothing but loiter at the edge of Spock’s vision, and then he became agitated. He stepped into Spock’s space as if he belonged there, as if Spock had not attacked and all but molested him less than an hour earlier. The shape of him eclipsed Spock’s view of the stool that McCoy had left behind, and the hands that Jim placed on Spock’s knees made him flinch back even though he had half expected a touch of some sort. “Spock, look at me.”

 

Irrationally, Spock could do nothing in response except ball his hands up against his stomach and fling his head to one side in refusal.

 

This failed to deter Jim. “You’re not an inconvenience. If there’s someone you’d rather have, then just name him. Or her. Whatever. I’ll get them for you. But if not, then you have to let me do this. I can’t let you die. Do you understand? It’s just like the Jellyfish, Spock; I won’t leave a good man behind.”

 

“I do not want you.” The lie of it hurt him like a physical ache, like sickness and burning and the cold of dead space. Then again, the words might have contained a grain of truth; he did not want Jim _like this_. As part of Jim’s friendship-duty to him, or as a captain saving the life of a fellow officer. He did not want to want him. Spock moved his knees in an effort to get to Jim to release him; the attempt proved futile.

 

“Then who?” Jim pressed. He leaned forward, probably in the human manner of persuasion via intimidation. Spock was merely tempted anew to rub against him so that their scents mingled and everyone would know that Jim was his. “Just tell me, and I’ll handle it. Who do you want?”

 

Spock wasn’t certain when he had given into the restlessness crawling beneath his skin to squirm under Jim’s hands, but he had. He scooted backwards on the biobed, but there was nowhere for him to go. “ _Ri estuhl-uh nash-veh._ ” Spock flinched and might have pushed at Jim to make him stop being warm where Spock could feel it; he wasn’t sure. His heart felt like a scatter of protons in a double slit experiment, striking the inside of his ribs in all the wrong places.

 

Mercifully, Jim’s hands came off of him, but Spock had no sooner given in to the rush of relief than they reappeared cupping his face to make him look. He tried to jerk away again, only to find that Jim had moved up between his knees, and Spock’s legs knocked against him as he moved. “Spock. It’s okay. I don’t mind doing this for you. It’s not an imposition.”

 

Spock went still, hoping that this might stop Jim from insisting on…on anything, really. His attention seemed unable to fix on anything other than the press of Jim’s palms against his skin. He caught his breath before it could escape him, shallow inhalations to minimize the effect of Jim’s scent in close proximity, and lifted his eyes to his captain’s face.

 

He could just give in. He could let Jim do as he liked, and deal with the consequences later. It would be easy, and Jim wanted him to. He liked doing what Jim wanted. He liked making him smile like that, with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the helpless tilt of fondness to his mouth. Spock forced his eyes back open and blinked a few times, his lips parting to taste the air that had warmed between them. And he made his decision. He could not allow himself to have this, knowing that Jim would not allow him to keep it after, just like the words he took back and the promises he broke even though he didn’t mean to. Jim had warned him what he was. He would never intentionally cause Spock harm. Not if he could help it. Not if he could help himself.  _Kaiidth_. Spock accepted Jim as he was. That did not mean that he had to accept  _him._ “I do not consent.”

 

The soft smile faltered and then disappeared as if it had been slapped from Jim’s face. He let Spock go and stepped back.

 

“You do not want this,” Spock explained. “You are only afraid to lose an officer.”

 

Jim balked and drew himself to his full height. “That’s bullshit, Spock. Look, you may be the best first officer in the fleet, but that is not why I’d do this for you. Just forget what I said about breaking in a new F.O. – that was a bad joke.”

 

“Then you are afraid to lose a friend; it leads to the same conclusion.”

 

A retort appeared primed in the way Jim opened his mouth, and then he visibly bit his tongue to contain himself. “Okay; I’m definitely afraid to lose your friendship, and I _will_ lose it if I lose _you_.” As if it were a mantra, he said again with the same inflection, “Okay? So tell me why you think that means I don’t want _this_ , since _this_ is what will keep me from losing you. It seems like a perfectly logical progression to me.”

 

“You have given me cause to think nothing else.” Spock watched him struggle to assimilate that, and wished that he were the sort of person who could have simply taken what Jim offered without thought for the consequences. “In your quarters, you told me that it was wrong of me to demand that you…fuck me...in order to keep me.” The vulgarity stuck on his tongue like molasses, unpleasant.

 

If Jim noticed the profanity, or the foreign and hesitant sound of it coming from Spock’s mouth, he ignored it. “You’re not demanding, Spock; I’m _offering_. Look, that was a stupid thing for me to say, too. I was angry, and I didn’t understand what you meant, but I get it now. I said that before – I thought we were over that.”

 

"You stated that you do not remain in monogamous relationships. And the thought of engaging in sexual intercourse with me is morally objectionable to you due to my inexperience."

 

Jim groaned and smeared his hands over his face. "I have _got_ to stop being honest with people."

 

That seemed like an illogical resolution to make. Spock ignored it. “My father can make arrangements. It is a clan matter.”

 

“For god’s sake. Spock, you don’t have to do that.” Jim gave up on keeping his distance and came back to stand so close that Spock attempted to lean away. “Is that really what you want? A business transaction?”

 

Spock nearly winced, but he managed to contain it well enough that to a human, it would appear only as if he had averted his gaze a little too quickly. A business transaction seemed to be all that Jim offered; what was the difference, exactly? “It is preferable.”

 

Bewildered, Jim demanded, “To what?”

 

“To choosing you for no other reason than that you are convenient. As Doctor McCoy pointed out, you are the easy solution, but not necessarily the right one.”

 

It was curious, the way Jim’s face changed. Spock was certain that it indicated rage, but he could not pinpoint any part of the expression to evidence that. “Bones told you that? That I’m _easy_?”

 

For no apparent reason, Spock decided that it would be best if he did not respond.

 

The silence seemed to have spoken for him, however, because Jim’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Well, fuck what Bones said. What about what you told me? About the colors and the warmth? That’s not a convenience, Spock; _you_ said that. There’s no one else, and there never will be.” He paused, his face almost sad, but more determined. “You just said you don’t want better. Well. I can guarantee you, there are plenty of people out there who are. Better than me, I mean.” Jim stepped close enough to rest his hand on Spock’s side, over the irregular vibration of his heart. “And that, I understand.” He leaned forward and Spock let him exhale in his face as if Jim knew exactly what that did to Spock. “I'd argue with you about it some more, if you had the time. Because I don't, for one second, believe that all of this is really what's eating you. But you _don't_ have that kind of time. So you tell yourself whatever lies you need to make yourself get through this. And I'll do what I have to, to do the same.”

 

Spock watched him cross the room and enter an override code at the door without looking back, and wondered why his parting words sounded vaguely more like a threat than a reassurance.

 

“I’m gonna go find out what’s keeping Bones.”

 

Jim took all of his warmth from the air when he left the room, and Spock stiffened to contain the shudder that fought to work through him at the abrupt chill. A moment later, he alit on the floor as well, and via an unnecessarily circuitous route through the room, ended up at the door that led to the hall, and beyond that, the biosciences lab. He picked out McCoy’s voice with ease, hushed but honed into sharp syllables by virtue of his distress.

 

“I don’t _know_ , Jim. Dammit. I shoulda been looking for this. God _dammit_.”

 

“This isn’t your fault,” Jim told him, his voice lower, more controlled. “It’s just a sucky situation.”

 

“Oh, just go fuck yourself, _Captain_.”

 

“Simmer down, Bones.” How Jim always managed to maintain a level tone in the face of McCoy’s rampant emotionalism would forever remain a mystery to Spock.

 

“Simmer this! He came to me for help. He _trusted_ me – do you get that? And I didn’t even _look_! I should’ve tested him months ago – the signs were all over the damn place, practically crammin’ themselves down my throat. I never shoulda put the emotional outbursts down to plain fucking puberty – it’s never _plain_ with Vulcans – and he’s been having hot flashes and shivering all over the place, and the paranoia about his health – _he_ knew there was something wrong. He kept coming in here with his cockamamie theories, and you know what? All of those scenarios of his may have been shit, but I shoulda clued in that he was only doin’ that because he knew something wasn’t right, and I wasn’t payin’ attention. And that thing with the stupid Betazoid – that was a red fucking flag, that he’d even _think_ about hookin’ up with somebody like that. Not to mention how he’s been goin’ around sniffin’ at you like you’re ambrosia. And now what? What do we do now, Jim? It’s too late to find somebody else; he’s too far gone.”

 

“What I don’t get is why he didn’t tell one of us before now,” Jim said. He sounded winded, perhaps disappointed. “I thought he trusted us. We could have done something by now, had it handled already.”

 

McCoy snorted; contrary to his usual emotional state when making that sound, the force of it seemed to indicate a certain meanness. “Jim, he didn’t know. Don’t you get it? He’s been coming in here for months on end, throwing one ridiculous theory at me after another, trying like hell to figure out why he felt like something was wrong inside of him.”

 

A few beats, and then Jim demanded, “How in the hell could he not know? Bones, it’s classic fuck-or-die. It’s like bad twenty-first century literotica.”

 

“It’s not like anyone ever really talked to him about it. Vulcans learn the warning signs of impending rut cycles in textbook fashion, just like everything else in their lives. Their parents give them reading materials, and then tell them to take any follow-up questions to their Healer. And normally, in a heterosexual bonded pair, it’s the female that notices first anyway. The main sign for the male is the need to be with her and the desire to touch her. Aside from that, it’s all rituals and esoteric nonsense and fucking gongs and bells in the desert for these guys; they don’t discuss this shit the way humans talk about sex with their kids. They make them memorize the rituals and the vows, tell them they’ll know it when they feel it and that instinct will guide them, fill them full of terror about how it ‘strips their minds from them’ and turns them into savages, and then send them on their ways. It’s barbaric, the way they teach their kids to be ashamed of their own biology, like falling prey to it is a personal failing. And even if Spock did have questions about it, he never would have taken them to his Healer, or any other medical type; he didn’t trust them enough to subject himself to a discussion of something so personal, not with the way Vulcans regard Pon Farr and the taboo that they put on even sayin’ the damn word.”

 

“Yeah…” Jim sounded contemplative, as if he were frowning the way he sometimes did while sitting in the command chair on the bridge with his chin resting on his fist. “You know, he actually said something a while ago about how he wasn’t comfortable talking about sex with you.”

 

“Much as it pains me, Spock equates me with Vulcan Healers. I’m not surprised.” A pause, and then McCoy dug, “That’s why he _tried_ to talk to you about it instead.”

 

“Alright,” Jim grumbled. “Okay. I get it. I dropped the ball. I’m an asshole and a shit friend, okay?”

 

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” McCoy protested. “I didn’t say that. Exactly.”

 

Jim spoke over him without hesitation. “Whatever. As fascinating as all of this is, it’s not really relevant right now. Just tell me what I need to do for him. Like, how – ”

 

“Jim, you can’t. You don’t understand. It’s too _late_ for that. You’re not bonded to him, and you’re male. Even if you have some dinky little proximity mind-link with him, he’s not imprinted enough on your presence to be able to recognize you as _mate_ instead of _competition -_ that's why his first instinct in the hall was to attack you, and not screw you. And you haven’t been taught to handle him like this. Vulcan women spend years learning how to safely deal with a mate in Pon Farr.” His accent distorted the term into something more like _punfer_.

 

“I can _deal_ with it,” Jim insisted, his voice finally rising. “I hear what you're saying, but you're wrong; Spock won’t hurt me.”

 

“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you? Hot shot Mister Kirk, Intergalactic Stud.” McCoy’s voice rose steadily with his ire. Spock reflected absently that it did so along a parabolic curve. “You think that anything you’ve done will help you deal with a rutting Vulcan? You need your goddam head examined if you think for one second that you know what this is going to be like!”

 

Again, Jim averred, “Spock won’t hurt me. And what else is there for him at this point?” A shuffle of footsteps, and then Jim resumed speaking in a lower register, more determined – his Captain’s voice. “I can handle him. He needs to mate? Fine. I’ll lay back and think of the Federation.”

 

“For an entire week?”

 

“If I have to, yes. It’s a small price, Bones.”

 

For a moment, it seemed that McCoy had no response to that, but evidently, they had merely been engaged in a staring contest. “And what about when he can’t control himself anymore, huh? What about when you’re tired, or sore, or bleeding, for Christ’s sake? What will you do then? When he can’t even recognize you anymore as anything other than a warm hole to stick it in – when he startles you or grabs you and holds you down, and you panic like any normal person would – or hell, what if you have a flashback, and he _can’t stop_?”

 

“So it’ll get a little rough,” Jim said, but there was a tremor to the words now, and the authority had given way. “I told you, it’s fine. I’ll survive.”

 

“Will he?”

 

Jim said nothing for a moment, and then he asked, his voice wary, “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean that at some point, you’re going to fight him. You’ll panic, or you’ll just hurt too much right then, or he’ll grab you too hard or twist something and injure you, and you’ll struggle because it’s human instinct. And what do you think will happen when you do?” Jim likely made some sort of noncommittal gesture in response, because McCoy continued with, “Well, then I’ll tell you. Spock has three times your strength, and he will be out of his mind on hormones, and he will _not_ be able to stop. He won’t care about what you’re going through. Not right then, anyway – he won’t be capable of it. But later, after he sobers up? Then he’ll remember how he grabbed you, and held you down screaming, and raped you.”

 

“It’s not rape if I consent.”

 

“Jim, we both know that Spock is _not_ gonna see it that way.”

 

Silence. And then Jim said, his voice clipped as if he were gritting his teeth, “I am not just going to let him die.”

 

“I’m not sayin’ you should,” McCoy came back, his voice devoid of the confrontational spark that had characterized it up until now. “Just that maybe it would be better to let someone else take the risk this time. For both your sakes. Vulcans aren’t safe during their Time, Jim. Spock is being driven by his body, against his will, to mate. He can’t be trusted. Nothing he says or does right now can be trusted; he’s not rational. In truth, he probably hasn’t been entirely rational for a while now. It’s not his fault; it’s just part of what he is. But you need to realize how bad this is going to get.”

 

The argument continued in lower registers, less heated, and although Spock could still hear them both clearly, he did not wish to listen any further. McCoy was a highly emotional being, but when it came to medicine and matters of biology, his judgment had always proven sound in Spock’s opinion. No less so now. Jim would put himself in Spock’s path if there were no other option, and McCoy was right – Jim did not know what he invited by doing so. Spock had no wish to harm him; the very thought of causing him a flashback, of giving him pain, twisted knots so tight in his already upset stomach that it was a wonder he did not bring up his last meal. Jim could not be allowed to come to harm, especially not at Spock’s hand. As first officer, Spock was tasked with ensuring the captain’s safety and wellbeing, even at the cost of his own, and if necessary, he would protect the captain even against himself. Because Jim trusted him. Because Jim _knew_ that Spock wouldn’t hurt him.

 

Spock crossed to the communications terminal at the unoccupied nurse’s station and sat down. When the bridge communications officer answered his hail, he asked to be put through to the Vulcan consulate on Earth. An attaché answered after a brief delay, calm and aloof as any Vulcan, and asked how Spock’s call should be directed.

 

“I must speak with Ambassador Sarek.”

 

The attaché consulted his terminal and reported, “The Ambassador is otherwise disposed. If you leave a message, I will see that it is delivered once his present business is concluded.”

 

“The matter is urgent. Please inform him that he has a call.”

 

“As you are approximately seventy-seven light years from our current position, urgency is irrelevant. There is little that could be done from Earth, and it would be illogical to interrupt the Ambassador’s current schedule when he can do nothing to assist. I advise you to leave a message, and it will be delivered at the first available opportunity.”

 

Spock blinked in an effort to keep himself in check. This Vulcan did not realize what was at stake; Spock could forgive him this unavoidable ignorance. “I am certain that were he made aware of my call, he would be willing to speak with me.”

 

The attaché took a deep breath, an apparent bid for calm. The blatant manner of it was very human, perhaps a testament to either cultural contamination or stress from the ongoing effort to rebuild their species in the aftermath of Nero. “As I have already stated, the Ambassador is otherwise disposed at present. If you leave a message – ”

 

“I do not wish to leave a message. It is imperative that I speak with my father immediately. Please inform him – ”

 

“Commander Spock. I am aware of your identity and rank. However, I have been instructed that the Ambassador is not to be interrupted except for the direst of emergencies. I will deliver a message as soon as his present business is concluded.” A beat, and then, “Will you leave a message?”

 

Spock shook his head, and then had to amend that to a verbal negative, his eyes straying off toward the wall to his left. Jim could be found in that direction, through two bulkheads in McCoy’s office.

 

The line remained open for several seconds, and then the attaché asked, “Do you require anything further?”

 

Jolted from his unintentional fixation on Jim’s current location, Spock twitched and had to breathe for a moment to avoid losing the thread of this communication. He wasn’t sure what made him want to ask, as he had checked multiple times himself, to no avail. Regardless, Spock’s gaze tracked back to the terminal, and he cocked his head. “Do you have access to the survivor’s lists?” At the attaché’s nod, delivered just a moment out of synch in betrayal of the emotional reaction that must have been suppressed beneath the surface, Spock asked, “Is there anyone by the name of Sybok listed among those who made their homes on planets other than Vulcan?”

 

The attaché consulted a different terminal this time, and then returned to face Spock. “Negative. No one by that name exists. Do you require anything further?”

 

The image in front of him seemed to waver and haze over, and Spock took a deep breath in the hopes of containing the burning flush that spread in a billow like back draft through his body. “…no.” Somehow, he focused back on the terminal, and the now visibly impatient Vulcan attaché waiting there. “Will you…tell my father…” He swallowed, and the attaché tipped his head, suspicious now, as if he had finally caught on to something being seriously amiss. “Tell my father I am sorry I am not the son he wanted.”

 

An unexpected flash of alarm crossed the attaché’s face, and he reached for a button on his console. “Commander, please remain on the li – ”

 

Spock toggled the channel closed and watched the video feed of the Vulcan attaché blink into nonexistence. It had been illogical to even ask after Sybok, and his father would not have seen the point of his calling anyway, much less interrupting a diplomatic function, emotional as Spock’s motivation had been. His condition could not be helped at this point. Not even his clan would intervene for him at this point, and the Vulcan council had already deemed his life worth less than that of other Vulcans'. He stood up, faltered because he was not certain what his next action should be, and glanced behind himself at the rest of the medical bay.

 

From the biosciences lab, Jim’s voice droned on in tones so low that it sounded like syllables lost in the static of subspace. “We _do_ have a link. And ever since I did that adrenal thing to him in the turbolift, I can _feel_ him. _All_ the time, like it made it stronger. It’s like somebody’s watching you even though you know the room’s empty.”

 

Spock could not stay here. McCoy had said that he posed a danger to those around him. To Jim. He needed to go someplace where Jim would be safe from him.

 

McCoy said something too low to make out beyond the grumble of, “pair bonding,” and then Jim asked, “How long, then? Until the plack toe…thing?”

 

“A day?” McCoy replied. “Maybe two. Jim, I don’t know. Without an established mating bond, the onset is more rapid, more intense. He’s got no stabilizing influence; it’s basically just going to bowl him over.”

 

Spock tried to focus on finding his way out of sickbay, but the air felt cloying and he could not think beyond the haze of heat in his veins. And he felt sick like burning – fever and ulcers, and a distended heaviness below that - aching all over with the throb of something ambiguous in his veins, deep and timed out of synch from his heartbeat.

 

“His body knows it’s fucked if he doesn’t bond and mate. With anyone he can get his hands on. From what I’ve read, the plak’tow is scary ass shit, Jim. The higher brain literally just shuts down. He’ll have to be isolated if that happens to keep him running rampant all over the ship.”

 

“But it doesn’t have to get that bad, right? If he’s got someone willing to mate with him, he won’t end up in the plaque-toe.”

 

A door appeared in the center of Spock’s roving field of vision, and he stumbled to reach it before…before something bad happened. Get away from Jim. He had to get far away from Jim so that he couldn’t hurt him. Because Jim said he wouldn’t. Spock’s breath came in sharp, rapid pants, and he ignored the way his skin itched as if to propel him out of it. He managed to fix the idea in his mind that he couldn’t be near Jim, that Jim wasn’t safe with him, even though the reasons and the whys of it flickered in and out.

 

An indistinct murmur reached him as he passed the biosciences lab, and then McCoy’s voice rose in a gentle grumble over the assertion, “Jim, so much of this is just hormones talkin’. Among other things, Spock’s brain is saturated with vasopressin – he’s practically swimmin’ in a pair-bonding soup here. It’s not even a choice for him anymore. You can’t take his attraction toward you as anything more than a biological imperative.”

 

It sounded as if Jim threw or hit something before he snapped, “Then what are you suggesting, that we buy him a whore or something? We’re in the perfect place for it, aren’t we; thank god we’re in for repairs. We can just pick a nice sturdy girl out of a catalogue and have her sent up. Maybe a few spares in case he wears the first one out, or kills her.” A pause long enough for McCoy to offer a wordless protest, and then Jim again, saying like an invocation, “He’s my friend. He _knows_ me. That’s got to be better than some stand-in he’s never even met.”

 

Spock needed to get away, quickly.

 

“Commander? I don’t think Doctor McCoy has cleared you yet, sir.”

 

The corridor was too bright; it stung his eyes enough to trigger his inner eyelids closed. His quarters would be a relief to his senses – quiet and warm, the lighting low and tinged red, filled with the ingrained scent of his incense, like a cave in the desert. Safe. It would be safe there. Jim would not be there, and Spock could lock him out, and they would all be safe from one another.

 

“Mister Spock?”

 

Spock paused and blinked over his shoulder, his reactions sluggish, and yet for all that he felt like the world swam in peat bogs around him, the edges of everything that he looked at glittered into honed edges like the blades of razors. Like an earth child’s toy that he had found on a shelf in his human aunt’s house. Kaleidoscope. His aunt had yelled at him for touching it. “Nurse…Chapel. Christine.”

 

Chapel’s affect skewed in what seemed like cautiousness. A prey reaction. “Are you alright, sir?”

 

Spock could smell her – a sudden vaporization of sweat and adrenals, and beneath that, the subtle scent of a woman. She was not Jim, but she was almost warm, after a fashion. He had been leaving, but he was not certain why. The imperative to do _something_ remained. For no real reason, Spock told her, “It is illogical to protest against our natures.”

 

“Sir?” Christine took a jittering step backwards.

 

She was acting strangely. And shivering. Was she cold too? Spock lifted a hand and drew the pads of his fingers through the trail of saline on her cheek. Why was her face wet?

 

“Doctor McCoy! _Captain_!”

 

Spock flared his nostrils and touched her trembling lips next, felt the warm puffs of air as she fought to breathe normally. His gaze riveted on the slow slide of his fingers over her jaw, then under her chin and down the long ridged column of her throat. Her scent became stronger as the tempo of her heartbeat increased. The pulse of it thrummed beneath the pads of his fingers where they rested over her sternum, near the collar of her uniform. He caught the natural scent of her wafting up from between her breasts.

 

“Whoa, hey, no! Spock, let go. Come on, just leave her alone.”

 

Spock turned toward Jim’s voice and found him standing with his palms held out toward Spock. Jim slipped between them, and as Christine sidled away from the edge of the table that Spock had nearly backed her into, he twisted his body to watch her scramble past McCoy and out of the room. Had he hurt her? He thought he had barely touched her.

 

“Hey – eyes on me.” Jim grabbed his head and forced it around so that Spock had no choice but to look at him, their faces only inches apart. He needed to get away from Jim, but the warmth… It was enough to bask in. Spock preened against it, and even though he tried not to, he reached out to paw at Jim’s chest. “Jesus, Bones – he’s burning up.”

 

The feinberger whirred behind him, and then McCoy swore. “His chemistry’s gone gobbledygook, Jim. He hasn’t got a day. I don’t even think he has an hour at this rate.”

 

Spock leaned into the hands touching him and tried to twist closer. “Jim.” He could remember meaning to leave, and not be near him, but the danger inherent in remaining escaped him. “ _Dash-tor ish-veh_.” Only the urgency to get out and lock himself in a dark place alone found its way to Spock’s conscious mind, and he _burned_ … “Jim, no.” Spock clutched at his shirt and tugged, then snuffled his way up into Jim’s hair and pulled harder at the shirt. “No.”

 

Jim soothed him and cupped a hand over his ear to press his head against Jim’s shoulder, and Spock shuddered in a firm arch against him. Jim’s voice sounded muffled and hollowed, thick, through his throat where Spock’s ear was pressed. “Will the quarantine chamber hold him?”

 

Spock plucked at Jim’s clothes, at the fabric covering his back and sides, with no real purpose in mind. Finally, he just bit at Jim’s shoulder, hard through the fabric of his uniform, because there was no other way to release the tension strummed taut in the shivering muscles of his body. A restless agitation stole through him his skin crawled from the touch of fabric rustling against it, but remedying that irritation would necessitate taking his hands off of Jim, and he couldn’t seem to make himself do it. He felt sick, and hot, and his head was pounding but not just his head, his _blood_ throbbed like the engine core of the Enterprise reverberating through the soles of his feet, as if his skin were the drumskin of a gigantic tympani during a performance of Klingon opera. The inside of his tunic felt like sandpaper, and Jim’s hands tightened on him as if to stop him fidgeting himself into a fit, or into pieces.

 

“Yeah, it’s made to withstand anything,” McCoy replied. “It would take an engineering team over a weak to cut through the shielding and containment bulkheads.”

 

“Good. Come on, Spock.”

 

Spock allowed Jim to pull him a few feet down the corridor, his teeth clamped over a mouthful of fabric and tendon, and then he twisted to dislodge Jim’s hold. He tried to convey that it wasn’t safe, that Jim needed to run because Spock would hurt him if he stayed. The words wouldn’t come, though, and he hadn’t taken his mouth off of Jim anyway. Jim all but dragged him along, pulling and shoving in equal measure, his hands twisted in Spock’s tunic to ensure handholds. It was likely a miracle they didn’t trip, as their legs seemed to overlap at irregular intervals.

 

A sense of vertigo assailed him as Jim abruptly shoved him against a wall and let go of him, ripped himself free of teeth and clinging hands both. Spock floundered for balance without the support that Jim’s body had offered, grabbed after his retreating form and then found himself on his knees just trying desperately to breathe and not drown in the bare air. Jim’s boots clacked a rapid staccato across the floor, and Spock looked up in time to watch Jim gesture McCoy out, start to follow him, and then once McCoy’s back was turned, shove him hard through the door. The smack of Jim’s hand on the door panel and the hiss of the containment lock eclipsed the thud of McCoy’s body hitting the floor outside. The secondary containment field buzzed into existence twelve seconds later, and then a second blast shield door slid into place. The silence left behind was like a living thing that breathed in synchrony with Spock’s heaving lungs, echoing through the room as in the arid atmosphere of a cave in the desert.

 

Jim stepped back from the door panel and looked at him. Without breaking eye contact, he called, “Computer: Command protocol Kirk alpha-alpha-tango, override code scramble, program Kirk-one, authorization 11432.0. Enable.” The computer intoned an acknowledgement.

 

Spock stared at him. The realization and the lack of external stimuli afforded him a small if stark moment of utter clarity from within the stifling shell of his own skin. “What have you done?”

 

A cocky reply materialized visibly in the set of Jim’s mouth and the defiant angle of his shoulders, but it disappeared just as quickly, and Jim allowed a measure of his uncertainty to show in the way he swallowed with his shoulders collapsing in on themselves. “What I had to.”

 

Spock shook his head and staggered to his feet only to lurch into the sealed door. “No.” He stabbed at the panel and managed to enter his command code with shaking fingers. The computer informed him that his authorization was denied. “No!”  He could see McCoy on the other side of the soundproof transparent aluminum at the observation window, hollering at orderlies and forming his mouth around a demand for an engineering team. The urgent scramble of people outside the quarantine room seemed surreal, like a video feed without sound, or a picture window viewed from a vacuum. Spock could still taste the musk of sweat that had seeped into Jim’s uniform where Spock had bitten him and then apparently suckled at the fabric. He gulped in a hasty breath, whimpered at the flush of heat that coursed in a violent wave through his blood, and tried the override again. And again, and then he threw himself at the containment window and pounded on it until McCoy noticed him there. The audio feed crackled to life a moment later, and before McCoy could say anything, Spock yelled, “Stop him!”

 

“ _Jim, unlock the fucking door! That’s a medical order!_ ”

 

Spock informed him, “He has enacted a locking protocol to scramble the override sequence. You cannot let him do this!”

 

“ _Jim! Goddamit, you mother fucking son of a bitch! Were you listening to a damn thing I said? This is not the only answer!_ ”

 

Jim came up behind Spock and pried him away from the audio control panel. Just his touch through Spock’s tunic felt like fire and ice, and the gravity well of a neutron star. Spock growled at him, want and warning both, and Jim replied to the speaker with his eyes on Spock, “It’s either me, or some stranger who doesn’t stand a chance against him. Or worse, some other crew member he grabs when he gets loose. Least of two evils, Bones.” He jabbed the button to close the channel and took Spock’s shoulders to make him focus, but not before Spock noticed McCoy’s face going all but white with shock.

 

McCoy opened the channel right back up. “ _Captain, you are in violation of medical orders._ ”

 

“I’m not giving him over to some whore!”

 

“ _I never said –_ ”

 

“You just got done telling me all about Vulcan pair bonding. If we bring a stranger in here now, he’s going to have to live with that person in his head for the rest of his life, provided she even survives – he’d have to share his thoughts with a _concubine_ , for god’s sake! Have you even seen his mind?”

 

“ _You haven’t seen it either!_ ” McCoy’s voice blared through the speaker at the perfect resonance to cause Spock to wince at the way it impacted his eardrums.

 

Jim shushed him and clapped his hands over Spock’s ears as if to assist him, or perhaps to protect him from anything that McCoy might say. Through the skin pressed to his temples, covering his hair, Spock could sense how Jim lingered over the memory of Selek’s mind, bright and stunning like pain, and how he wanted that experience again. It was almost enough to drive Spock away from him again, jealous and angry at being a pale substitute for a better version of himself, until Jim thought with utter clarity and a longing like grief that he never wanted _his_ Spock’s mind to turn into what he had seen of Selek’s – brilliant and warm and open like sunlight, but old and empty and barren, the only people he had ever found fellowship with gone before him of old age, finally following his father’s footsteps to the diplomatic corps as if he could still earn a dead man’s pride, still mourning the Jim Kirk long dead in his universe who had given him friendship and yet never really _seen_ to the core of him.

 

A wash of possessiveness suffused them both, a trickle over of Jim’s, because apparently Jim differentiated them by the appellations of _old-Spock_ and _MY-Spock_ , emphasis included. Spock shivered and arched toward Jim as he absorbed that, and then growled in answer, “ _T’nash-veh._ ” He balked at the sound of his own voice, at the animalism that contaminated it, and immediately tried to reduce the surface area contact that he had with Jim’s body.

 

Jim looked away from the intercom and the angry picture that McCoy made fuming on the other side of the observation window. He nodded his agreement even as Spock withdrew again and fought himself for control, for distance…for just an instant of rational thought. Jim’s nod was a miniscule motion, and shot through with the conflicting emotions that Spock had come to expect from him. It was no less gravid a gesture for the hint of doubt that lingered in his features, and no less a commitment either. That was probably why Spock found it so terrifying. There were no conditions set on this agreement, merely Jim, Captain Kirk, and his stubborn insistence on saving Spock’s life, no matter the cost. Because Spock was his friend.

 

“Don’t,” Jim whispered as he attempted to prevent Spock’s twitching away. Louder, with his voice pitched toward the intercom but his eyes on Spock, Jim called, “It’s too late, Bones. By the time Scotty breaks through the shielding on this room, it will be over. This is happening.”

 

“ _Like hell! Jim, open the door immediately, or I will relieve you of duty._ ”

 

“You do what you have to.” Again, Jim closed the channel and focused on Spock. “Let’s just get through this, alright?”

 

Spock shook his head with the vague intent of shaking off the fog that had infiltrated his mind like steam from a hot spring, rational thoughts bogged down in a mire of roiling heat and chaos, and attempted to extract himself from Jim’s grasp; it was like trying to rid oneself of a spider web that one had walked into. Just to add to the difficulty, Spock’s body was in full rebellion against his mind’s resolve to deny him. Every time he pulled a hand away, there was less force behind the gesture, and he found himself bending his head closer even as he shook and fought to dislodge Jim’s hands. It reminded him of the Deltans, of the way they had danced as if fighting themselves more than each other, grasping at limbs to get away and never quite making it.

 

“That’s it,” Jim crooned. “Just do it. Whatever you need, Spock.”

 

Spock wanted to bite Jim again, get part of him in his mouth and refuse to let go of it, and without thinking, without even realizing it, he bared his teeth for a moment and snarled weakly in Jim’s face. Then he hiccupped and let his eyelids slip closed because there seemed no point in keeping them open anyway. Jim backed him into a corner and though Spock kept one hand braced against Jim’s chest to fend him off, he could feel his own body curve and twist in an effort to reach Jim’s. The rapidity of his respirations was making him light-headed and he dropped his head back against the wall because his neck felt wobbly.

 

Somehow, Jim angled himself past Spock’s blocking hand and fumbled out of his uniform shirt without withdrawing from Spock’s space. The concentration of his scent increased with the fabric out of the way, and Spock held his breath as if that could aid him in not…doing something. The anxious need to act invaded him again, though he had no idea what it was that he was meant to do, only that _something_ had to happen soon, before he went out of his mind with the want of it. He wrenched at Jim’s arms, at his torso, just trying to figure out what to make of the frenzy that wouldn’t leave him.

 

“It’s alright; I’ve got you,” Jim murmured, his skin cool and soothing against the sick heat that permeated Spock’s body.

 

_Friendwarmsafegive_ washed over him, and Spock made a distressed sound in the back of his throat. Jim should not be doing this. He should not be here. McCoy said that Spock would hurt him. McCoy would not lie. Jim was not safe here. “You mustn’t…”

 

“Just take what you need; it’s fine.”

 

Spock tore his hands away and fisted them together, pressed against his mouth, his head whipping violently from side to side in denial. Jim said Spock wouldn’t hurt him – said it like it was gospel. And Jim was wrong. “Stop,” he begged. He couldn’t even muster shame or care for the way his voice cracked and broke into a breathless, choppy rasp of words. “Stop me. Stop me, stop…”

 

Jim covered the interlocked web of Spock’s fingers with his own and dug his fingernails in until Spock allowed him to take one of his hands.

 

Still chanting, pleading in inaudible whispers with Jim to stop, Spock watched him begin folding and shaping the fingers into the _ozh’esta._ He immediately struggled to break free. “No! No…Jim, no…”

 

“Let me,” Jim enjoined, and Spock only did so because he couldn’t seem to focus on resistance, and Jim had already completed the configuration. His larger, bulkier fingers were wrapped around the meat of Spock’s palm and over the thumb, ring and pinky fingers to hold them down.  When Spock went weak in the knees and folded forward from the stroking of Jim’s paired fingers against his, Jim braced him upright with his hip. Spock could feel Jim’s heart beating in his chest, could hear it in his blood. He seized at Jim’s shoulder with his free hand. An odd, garbled hiss of a moan reached Spock’s ears before he realized that it was his own throat releasing that sound. He jerked against Jim’s body and tried in vain to slow his breathing. He could almost literally _smell_ red in the heaviness of the air and the swollen weight in his groin, and in a fit of frustration, he wailed at Jim and tried to get his teeth latched onto something substantial enough to satisfy it.

 

“ _JIM!_ ”

 

Jim grimaced and swore without turning, and then tried to ease Spock’s distress at the interruption by smoothing down the mussed hair at his temple and allowing him to gnaw at a bicep. Over his shoulder, with his eyes still fixed on Spock, he called, “Bones, fuck off.”

 

Spock smeared his forehead across Jim’s skin and over his shoulder, then rubbed his face up into the crook of Jim’s neck. The rest of his body followed in a sort of undulating wave like the rare salt sea eels on Vulcan, or like the silver birds of the Forge caressing air currents as they flew.

 

“ _Do you even realize what you’re doing?_ ” McCoy persisted. “ _Kidnapping and wrongful imprisonment of a fellow officer, assault,_ sexual _assault – Jim, Spock doesn’t have the capacity to consent, and even if he did, a half dozen people heard him tellin’ you no! You’ll be court-martialed for this!_ ”

 

For a moment only, Jim’s resolve faltered. Spock shook like a palsy victim and pressed into the hands that Jim put on him and closed his eyes and tried to taste him on the air. Into the expectant silence, Jim finally told McCoy, “I owe him my life a dozen times over. Isn’t that worth a career?”

 

Spock butted up against Jim’s body and wormed deeper into his grasp, and decided that it didn’t matter, the strange noises he was making in the back of his throat. Spock fought to lift his head and blink at Jim through the fog and confusion and… He wanted Jim so badly, he _needed_ Jim. He couldn’t breathe right, and he could hear himself gasping for air and making starving sounds every time he exhaled, and the room was spinning, and there was fire in his blood, and he couldn’t think anymore…he couldn’t think, there was only _need_ and _want_ and Jim was right there. “Please.” He no longer knew what he was asking for, more or a cessation or something else that he didn’t realize he should be looking to receive. “ _Sanu_ …Jim…”

 

Jim nodded and then addressed the intercom without breaking eye contact. “Tell Scotty he’s in command until further notice. You can arrest me when I’m done.”

 

Spock heard a switch being toggled and kept his eyes open long enough to watch the observation window turn opaque. Then Jim switched off the audio panel again, right in the middle of McCoy’s protest, and tripped the circuit so that McCoy couldn't open the channel from his end anymore. With that accomplished, he cupped Spock’s head against one hand. There were supposed to be words, but Spock couldn’t find any, and when he looked, Jim’s face blurred and darkened at the edges with tunnel vision. And he _burned_. “ _Sanu._ ” He pulled against Jim without really knowing what he needed, only that Jim had it. “ _Sanu…kal-uh nash-veh_. _Yontau nash-veh._ ”

 

Jim nodded, somber and fierce in his conviction, as if his question to McCoy were one to which he had only just managed to find an answer. “Come on.” He got a grip on Spock’s shirt and pulled, and then caught him up under the arms when Spock staggered at the upset to his balance. Jim dumped him on the small bunk in the center of the room and for some reason, felt it necessary to hold him down for a moment. Spock jerked and ticked a few times at the pressure of the hands on his torso, and then managed to subside against the starched bedding, the fabric cool against his overheated skin. “Stay here. Alright? Spock? I need to…I have to get ready. Stay here for a minute.”

 

Spock exhaled sharply several times in rapid succession, and then couldn’t help the way his back arched at Jim’s touch to where a human heart would be. His throat rumbled out the vibrations of his hyoid bone, and he purred over the unaccustomed thickness of his tongue. “ _K’diwa_. _T’nash-veh._ ” A violent shivering wracked his body as Jim withdrew, and the light in the fresher came on like a blinding shaft of white from the left side of the room. Spock grunted and curled over onto his side away from it, his legs drawn up. The position put a delicious sort of pressure on his groin and he rolled himself tighter to increase the sensation.

 

Without Jim’s hands on him, his scent and his warmth far away in another room, Spock found just enough of his sanity returning to make him question what was about to happen. He didn’t have to let Jim do this. He could sink like this, here, if he wanted to. He could sleep, and go deeper, and stop his own heart – he was trained to be able to do that. And then Jim would be safe from him, and his career would be safe, and then the burning would stop, and he would never have to feel Jim’s upset at being tied to him forever after. Jim had said that he didn’t do relationships, that he couldn’t handle monogamy. He wouldn’t want Spock the way Spock wanted him, not for long anyway, and the thought of the resentment that would eventually fester between them caused a kernel of nausea to grow in the pit of Spock’s stomach, hot and roiling within the larger nimbus of the heat that threatened to drown him. He didn’t want Jim to hate him from inside Spock’s own head, the way T’Pring had hated him for tying her to him; he would rather be dead than that.

 

Spock allowed the tight furl of his body to loosen, and reached for the tattered remains of his control. It wouldn’t take much. Just a minute, barely any discipline needed at all. He just needed to think hard for a few seconds. Stopping the beat altogether was far easier, somehow, than regulating it. He could hear Jim moving about in the fresher, and the soft plop of clothing hitting the floor. That reminded Spock of how badly his own clothes itched and he squirmed for a moment within them, rubbing awkwardly against the bedding in an effort to relieve it. That only made the burning worse, though, and he howled softly into the mattress at the hopelessness and dissatisfaction of it.

 

From the other room came the sound of Jim living and breathing and moving, opening cabinets and mumbling to himself. Spock fisted his hands in the crisp medbay sheets and wrenched them out of their perfectly tucked and smoothed configuration. He had meant to do something, but the heat was stifling, and then Jim returned to uncurl him and get him laying flat in the center of the bunk again and, oh…Jim was naked. There was a vague idea that he should be fighting this, but red had stolen in at the edges of his vision, and Jim was on top of him, trying to pull off Spock’s tunic. Spock grabbed for him and Jim let him pull until his face was near enough that Spock could inhale what Jim’s lungs expelled. Jim’s hands were between them, blindly working at the closure of Spock’s trousers, and Spock could hear revulsion in his mind when Spock twitched upward in reaction to the accidental rub of knuckles over distended tissue. It made Spock want to vomit, it was so strong. He recoiled.

 

“Hey, hey, _hey_! Spock, shh…it’s okay, stop – _stop_!”

 

The skittering, invasive sensation of _sickbadwrong_ strengthened. Spock shoved him off and scrambled from the bunk. Jim was disgusted by this – by him. That was what he had meant to remember. Jim did not want him, it was like T’Pring all over again. The thought of enduring this with Spock was revolting to him, and –

 

Jim caught him around the waist and they both went down in an awkward, fumbling heap halfway to the door, Spock belly down on the bottom. He had to get out of here before he did something bad. Jim would hate him, and Spock could remember, so clearly, what it felt like to be loathed by him, it was like the death of a star –

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, I swear!” Jim was petting at him and trying to lift his face away from the floor. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

 

Spock scrabbled against the floor in a screech of fingernails, trying to crawl away. He knew that saying; humans used it to deflect, and it was always a lie. Not a malicious one, perhaps, but it was still a falsehood. Spock shrugged his shoulders to get Jim’s hands off, but it didn’t work, and he ended up twisted halfway over onto his back with Jim straddling his hips – and the way that felt – ignited – Jim’s hands on this face near the meld points, and then he grabbed one of Spock’s and placed it against his temple where he couldn’t help but hear and taste and smell Jim’s mind, and fall into –

 

_– thought there would be more time, Selek said twelve years – you should have had another twelve years – thought we’d have time for this – ruin this, I’ll ruin this, but I have to – you’ll die – hate that I’m doing this to you – you’re beautiful – it’s my fault –_ and then a scramble of pictures of Jim, young, fourteen years old, starving, and a man said he had food, that he’d give it to Jim because he thought Jim had such pretty blue eyes, and Jim thought of the children in the cave in the hills and how he had to feed them, and his aunt and uncle were dead, he’d watched them gunned down in the square, and he was alone, and he had to feed the little ones, they were all so small, and they trusted him, but he didn’t know how he was going to do this, he only knew that he had to, and the man seemed nice so Jim followed him inside and then refused to scream because the man had said there was food, and it might have been a lie, but he couldn’t risk that it wasn’t. But it was. There wasn’t any food, and it wasn’t the last time that happened, and Jim kept letting him do it because once in a while there _was_ food, once in while the man gave him bread or a ration tin, and Jim needed it to feed the little ones so they wouldn’t die, they trusted him, and he couldn’t risk telling the man no and having one of the little ones die for it. And then Spock sitting shivering on Jim’s bed, and slumped against Jim on the floor of the turbolift, vomiting in the shower stall and trembling in this room and telling Jim no but still grasping after him, shoving Jim away and dying because of it, breaking the box with his medals in it and saying he should never have been born, smelling Jim’s blankets and not shivering with Jim’s hands on him, huddling against the floor and trying to get away from him the same way he’d huddled in on himself in the front seat of a police cruiser, confused and uncomfortable and in shock, he looked so small sometimes, which was ridiculous and yet _– look what I’m doing to you – see, look – just like him now – you don’t have a choice, you’ll die – you’ll die if you say no, you can’t say no, you try but you can’t help yourself, you need it – regret-sorrow-revulsion-desperation-love – wanted you so much but not like this, like ration tins and bread crusts – I wanted you to want me, not need me just to live – you deserve better than – Jesus, I don’t know if I can do this, look at you –_

The connection broke and Spock choked at the suddenness of it. Jim had managed to get Spock’s tunic off, and Spock shook his head to clear it, but he couldn’t. He knew that there was significance to what Jim had shown him, but he still felt the sick in his stomach, and it might have been Jim’s or it might have been his own panic. It didn’t matter anymore. He had his hands on Jim, and Jim was using his feet to shove Spock’s trousers down toward his ankles, and then he cupped Spock’s head in his hands, his fingers creeping back to the base of his skull to push.

 

Spock groaned and arched, insensate. Heat rose like a blush of grass stains all over his body, an ache and an irritation like sunburn, and he clutched at Jim’s forearms, everything gone hazy around him except for Jim and _warmneedgivefriendlove – take it, just take what you need, take it, it’s okay if you hate me after, I’ll hate me too – just be alive to hate me_. Jim rose up over him and put a hand to his bloated penis and then –

 

Spock clenched all over and gaped at the exquisite pressure and heat, and Jim encouraged him with soft, strained words and kept one hand behind his head, and his mind burst open around Spock’s like a siphon, and Spock couldn’t take it any more. He needed too much, and the want was agony, and he burned and felt cold at the same time and Jim was like a sun, he was so _warm_ it was like life itself.

 

When Spock finally snapped and grabbed at Jim with no caution for his strength, rolled them over, and pressed Jim down beneath him with a snarl to make sure he stayed in his place, fingertip bruises blossoming on his arms, Jim let him. Jim encouraged him and helped him figure out what to do, where to put everything to find relief, soothed him and let him have whatever he wanted, warm and soft and _Jim_ with his mind bright like glass broken into shards to shred him, and so _much_ that Spock couldn’t tell when he drowned in it, only that he had.

 

And in the brief between-moments when he was lucid enough to understand what he was doing, he could see the way his fingers gripped too tight on easily-bruised human flesh. He could see how Jim fought himself not to recoil, and ignored the blood that Spock couldn’t help but draw, and kept _giving_ everything that Spock could ever want to take. And Spock hated himself for it. He hated that he couldn’t reign himself in, and he hated that Jim didn’t even ask him to.

 

He hated even more that he had strength enough to hold Jim down when he finally broke and struggled, but not enough strength to stop hurting him amidst the cries.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dub-con/non-con, minor violence, discussions of rape and the definition of rape. The morality (or immorality) of consent issues. Altered consciousness. Inability to consent. Pon-farr. After having said all of that, I'm not sure that the chapter and the application of the warnings is the typical one.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been literally years here... I have no excuse except to say that I finally figured out where this fic is going, and the muse has been beating me over the head with it for a while now. Please accept my apologies, and I truly appreciate every single one of the comments and messages I've received since I stopped writing this one, encouraging me to take it back up. <3

Chapter 7

 

Spock was three Vulcan years old the first time his father caught the mating fever.

 

Most Vulcan children, over ninety percent of them, were conceived during the Pon Farr when the male’s body produced such a high concentration of viable genetic material that conception was nearly inevitable without contraceptive intervention. At most other times during an adult male Vulcan’s life, seminal fluid could be produced but the material contained within was sterile. This was why Vulcan siblings were usually born apart by multiples of seven years at a time. It was also why sexual education tended to take place in a Vulcan child’s sixth year, as the seventh or eighth would be their first exposure to their parents descending into a mating frenzy.

 

Spock was not conceived naturally. He was the product of genetic manipulation grown in a laboratory and surgically implanted into his mother’s uterus only after it became clear that he could not be nurtured to full term in the incubation units at the Vulcan Science Academy. At three months’ gestation, the fetus that became him was still not sentient. It was alive, but not aware when it was inserted into his mother’s womb, an undernourished and worrisomely small formation of differentiated cells and tissue that only barely resembled a child. It weighed in at sixteen grams – approximately three-quarters of the ideal size of a fetus at that stage of development, measured by either the Vulcan or the Human standard. He developed relatively normally after that, considering that there had never been another like him.

 

And so, Spock was only three Vulcan years of age – the equivalent of four-point-two standard years – when Sybok, himself still of late schooling age, ran into Spock’s room, snatched him up off of the floor from amidst his array of teaching blocks, and ran out of the house with him. Spock had not understood why Sybok did that, or why they ran through the early morning with I-Chaya guarding their backs before the sun had even risen. Sybok had an ugly orange-brown mark puffed out and darkening on his cheek. Years later, Spock understood that their father had likely struck at him, unable to see that Sybok was his son and not an invading male. That morning, however, Spock knew only that his brother was hurt and running, their Sehlat was trying to protect them as they did so, and that Spock’s mother was not with them.

 

They took refuge, the three of them, with the sister of Sybok’s late mother. Sybok’s aunt disapproved of the half-breed half-brother of her nephew and the way that Spock clung to Sybok the whole time they were there. She even attempted to chastise Sybok for allowing it, lecturing him on inappropriate sibling bonds and the proper nourishment of a young Vulcan mind. Sybok replied by providing her with educational copies of child-rearing texts from Earth, many of which focused on a condition called “failure to thrive” in human infants who were not touched often enough by their caretakers. Others detailed various touch-deprivation syndromes in human children throughout the various stages of growth and development. This was a very logical thing for Sybok to do, and so it made Spock’s skin feel like crawling off of him when his aunt merely stared back at the both of them with contempt clear on her face. Spock would later come to know that expression very well, as most Vulcans he encountered after that showed it to him eventually.

 

On the surface and in his outermost thoughts, the situation did not bother Sybok, though he must have been perturbed. He carried a very small Spock around with him, in his arms or wrapped over a shoulder, thoughts cool like water to sooth his sibling’s upset. He slept curled around Spock’s undersized body with I-Chaya on the other side to keep him warm. He prepared Spock’s meals to the exacting standards set by the Healers to account for his hybrid physiological requirements. He kept Spock entertained and distracted as much as possible. It was still an unpleasant week, uprooted from his home and separated from his mother with no explanation and none of his learning or playthings to take his mind off of the disruption.

 

Sybok made it better, though, and he didn’t mind Spock’s human tendencies, like the desire to touch and be held, and the way that his unease manifested in lachrymal secretions that persistently defied what few controls he had mastered by that young age, a purely human indication of distress as full-blooded Vulcan possessed no tear ducts. Sybok’s aunt called it a waste of water, and selfish of him to expect others to replenish it when the excessive secretions left him parched. Vulcan was a desert world, after all, and even in modern times, water was often scarce. Sybok merely stared at her, and then later told Spock that her logic on the matter was flawed, as her assumptions stemmed from the false premise that a Vulcan-human hybrid was really just a Vulcan with slightly pinker skin.

 

Sybok ended up being the one who first explained Pon Farr to a less-than-prepared Spock. Even after the disruption of that week spent with Sybok’s aunt, Sarek and Amanda determined that Spock was not yet ready for that information. They told him simply that it would be explained at a later date. It occurred to neither of them that Spock knew that Sarek had hit his elder son, and that he had been the reason Sybok had to grab Spock without warning and flee. It never once occurred to either one of them that this knowledge without context would lead Spock to an irrational fear of his father’s disapproval, or that a very small Spock would assume that it was the emotion that Sybok so often displayed that had earned him physical violence, as he well knew that Sybok’s showing of emotion within the household was often the source of arguments, sanction and silence.

 

Sarek only noticed that Spock seemed less effusive in his presence, quieter and more respectful, and approved of the Vulcan side of him finally taking precedence over the human. Amanda frowned about it on occasion, but followed Sarek’s lead as Spock did not portray any worrisome tendencies beyond a more pensive affect. Only Sybok noticed the way that Spock remained beyond arm’s reach of their father when they went back home, and that for weeks following that, Spock avoided Sarek as much as he could and no longer participated in conversation at family meals unless someone asked him a direct question. His affect shut down out of fear, not control, and as only Sybok ever really sought the light mind touches that a Vulcan family should naturally bestow on a young son, only Sybok could see what was actually happening in front of them.

 

Spock was young, but beyond his age group in his studies. He did not completely understand what Sybok told him, but he at least realized that his father would not turn on them again in the near future. And he absorbed the core fact of the matter: Pon Farr was a bad time, it was not spoken of, and it was dangerous to be near a Vulcan caught in the frenzy. When Sarek found out what Sybok had done, he spent an evening attempting to lecture Sybok on childrearing, parental rights, and the importance of age-appropriateness. In retaliation, Sybok listed out every one of Sarek’s failings as a father, both according to Surakian principles and human norms, including the failing of not even seeing that his own youngest son was terrified of him.

 

The worst part was, perhaps, that Sarek did not believe him about Spock’s fear. He told Sybok that fear of a parent was not logical, and that Spock was a Vulcan child and aware of this. The argument ended when Sybok reminded Sarek that Spock was part human, and that it was irresponsible – _illogical_ – of Sarek to disregard this fact. It was also the first time, but far from the last, that Sybok called Sarek a hypocrite and accused him of paying lip service only to the principles of IDIC – of having a human wife and insisting that she behave only as a Vulcan would, of having a hybrid child and of actively attempting to eradicate any part of him that claimed origin in his mother’s genes.

 

By the time Spock entered his tenth year and his father succumbed to his next rut, Sybok was long gone, his name forbidden within the clan. I-Chaya had died three years earlier of the poison from the bite of a LeMatya. Spock ran out of the house alone that time, with no one guarding his back, and had no one from whom to seek shelter. He spent ten days in the guest quarters at the diplomatic compound in ShiKhar before his mother, tired but seemingly pleased, came to collect him.

 

After that second time, T’Pring actually made an effort to speak with him on the subject of how they would one day be expected to bond and mate. She had many questions which her own parents would not yet answer as she was too young to know. In an effort to draw him out, T’Pring cornered him in the research library, leaned against him and touched the backs of his hands. She spoke of what she _did_ know about courtship and mating as if it were a delectable secret, something to be coveted, and told him her own theories on their biology based on the cyclical mating habits of other species. Spock could not help but recoil from her, and from the restrained eagerness that lit the curiosity in her eyes. He wanted nothing of this in his life, and was appalled at the thought that she would wish to speak of it, and worse that she _wanted_ it to happen to Spock one day.

 

She took his withdrawal as disdain for her, personally, rather than disgust for the biological imperative itself. Up until that day, they had been cordial in keeping with their obligations, if not close. After that, she ignored him, and her distaste permeated the weak betrothal link that they shared for the six additional years that it took her to master the higher-form shielding techniques necessary to cut off a mate. In the mean time, it was cold and it hurt sometimes, physically, to wake and fall to sleep to the unrelenting pulse of resentment in the back of his mind, souring as time passed into something that smelled foul and made him feel, on occasion, that he may become sick if it did not cease. Until finally, he felt as if he could breathe again, and he realized that it was because there was no one in his head at all, save himself. The relief of that shamed him.

 

He left Vulcan shortly after, against his father’s wishes, disowned just as Sybok had been. There was no longer any compelling reason to remain as he would certainly be denied by his betrothed if the time ever came for that, and he had no wish to attend the Vulcan Science Academy as some sort of special needs Vulcan given unnecessary concessions on account of his bad blood. As far as a mate was concerned, he had time enough to deal with it at a later date, if his Time ever came at all. Considering his sterility, it was likely, he thought, that it never would. And if it did, he would have made a respectable name for himself, and surely there would be someone willing to take him as husband by virtue of his merits and accomplishments, rather than for the novelty of his being a half-breed, or the prestige of marrying into his clan.

 

And then Nero came, and Vulcan died, and Spock resigned himself to never having a proper mate at all – to never having someone in his mind who did more than just tolerate him at best. That is, until Jim Kirk forced tea into Spock’s hand and told him about famine words. For that brief space of time, at least, there was warmth within Spock’s reach. He had never felt warmth like that before. How could he have understood what might come of it?

 

* * * * *

 

Half aware, his thoughts slow and fuzzy, Spock prodded at the warmth that had anchored itself in the hollow corners of his mind, and found a quiet hum replete with a steady ache of exhaustion, guilty fear and, strangely enough, relieved satisfaction. Jim.

 

“Shit.” A comm. panel bleat in the background, and then Jim’s voice made its way to Spock from the other side of the room. “Bones?”

 

Spock tried to blink. His inner eyelids caught on dry corneas and the sticky residue of sleep, so he rubbed his face into a pillow in an effort to sooth. It smelled horrible, and he lifted his head out of it in a fumble to figure out where he was. The moment Spock gained some distance from the bedding, his muscles seemed to give out, and he flopped back down with a grunt, his coordination gone.

 

“ _What the fuck, Jim?! You’re four hours overdue for a check-in! The only way I knew you weren’t dead was because ship’s sensors could still pick up your life signs!_ ”

 

“I fell asleep.” Jim allowed McCoy to sputter some sort of high-pitched, wordless expression of aggravation and concern before he said, “I’m sending some readings to your PADD. I think it’s over, just…I need you to confirm it. I’m not completely sure what I’m looking for.”

 

It took some effort, but Spock did finally manage to shuffle his face into a position that would avoid him smothering himself. He spied a glass of water on a tray next to the bunk, set amongst a curious collection of apple cores, and his focus narrowed to a preoccupation with the parched, cottony feel of his mouth and throat.

 

“ _If you open the door, I can take my own readings._ ”

 

“We’ve already had this discussion; he might think you're competition.”

 

“ _Jim –_ ”

 

“In for a penny,” Jim interrupted.

 

Spock reached for the water. Jim’s presence in his mind felt like sparkles and smelled like sick heat. He gulped down the entire glass and then let the empty vessel fall to be lost in the tangle of bedding. The dizziness was overwhelming, Jim thinking in shades of shame and subdued glints of a dozen other things, watching the tricorder in his hands and waiting on McCoy, overlaying the view with a recollection of Spock sleeping and another of Spock holding him down, both of their hands slick with red. Spock folded to drop his face into a pillow, his hands holding his head steady against all logic foretelling the futility of doing such a thing. He was not accustomed to having a mind so full of another person; it had been nothing like this with T’Pring. How was Jim coping with this? How was he able to stand propped against the wall on the other side of the room and not feel as if parts of himself were being smothered or sundered by another?

 

McCoy was telling Jim to open the door, but Jim was walking toward Spock’s folded-up body instead. He stopped for some reason – one of them was cringing – Spock? – and then he retreated, his thoughts colored into cobwebs and mildew and rusted crumbles of discarded things. The sound of a door panel being activated drowned out the pounding of a human heartbeat in his head, and then the hiss of hydraulics heralded the unsealing of the quarantine door. Jim argued for a moment with someone, and then he was leaving, walking away down a corridor followed by a security officer and a nurse, and Spock tried to quiet the broil of a dozen human thoughts crowding him out of his own head.

 

“Jesus.” McCoy. He tapped Spock’s shoulder, contact dulled behind a layer of latex medical gloves. “I’m giving you a suppressant. Not the full dose. It won’t block everything.”

 

Spock curled more tightly around his head as if that would assist in holding everything inside his skull. Why wasn’t McCoy with Jim? Jim was the one injured, wasn’t he? Spock remembered the blood.

 

“Hang on…”

 

The cool head of a hypospray pressed into the back of his shoulder; that was likely the most accessible part of him, considering his position. A pinch and then a hiss of medication being pressure-forced through his pores. Something like cotton descended over parts of his mind, banking the billow of extra thoughts until they dimmed into tin tones and sepia colors and a more subtle odor like dust or wheatgrass, and he could think for himself again with the telepathic centers of his brain dampened. His breathing sounded unnaturally harsh with the sudden silence in his head, and he gasped out the first thing that came to mind. “Jim?”

 

“He’s down the hall,” McCoy told him. “Under guard. He won’t come back.” A feinberger whirred over his head, then down his back and around the rest of his body. “You’re dehydrated and I’m reading a dozen stress indicators, but it looks pretty good considering you haven’t eaten anything in six days, and…well. Considering.”

 

Spock twisted around and shoved McCoy’s instruments away. “The captain requires medical attention.”

 

“Not as badly as you do,” McCoy countered.

 

“You are lying.” Spock fumbled himself upright only to fall over on his other side.

 

McCoy followed him around to the other side of the bunk. “Jim’s fine, Spock. I promise you, if he were really that bad off, I wouldn’t be here.”

 

“You are here because he ordered you – ”

 

“Jim doesn’t have that authority in my sickbay. Spock, I swear: he’s fine. He’s tired and he’s probably hungry, but he’s not severely injured.”

 

Spock tried to evade McCoy’s tricorder, but his limbs would not cooperate. “There was blood – I remember – ”

 

“The worst you did was elbow him in the face, and that was apparently an accident. Bloodied his nose a bit.”

 

“He was screaming.”

 

“He had a flashback, but only the one, and it wasn’t bad,” McCoy told him, his voice soft. “He said he thought it upset you more than him. Now stop wigglin’ around and look at me.” He snapped his fingers in Spock’s face for some reason; in hindsight, it had the desired effect, as Spock immediately focused on him. “Jim checked in every few hours the whole time. You didn’t hurt him. He was right about the link thing; it was enough to keep you in check. You were a bit rough at first, but that’s not surprising; you didn’t know what you were doing, and you were right on the edge of falling into the plak-tow. After it calmed a bit, the two of you got on fine.”

 

Spock stared at him for what felt like a long time. McCoy held it until Spock satisfied himself as to his truthfulness. McCoy was many things, but he had never been a liar. “If he is well, then why is he not here?”

 

That gave McCoy pause; Spock watched him furrow his brow as if trying to understand what Spock was really asking. “Well, you were in distress, for one.” He waggled the used hypospray as illustration.

 

Spock looked down and pulled the sheet more tightly about himself. It served to draw his attention to the state of the room, and the filth of the bedding that he sat in. He could smell the unwashed stench of himself mixed with Jim’s odor and the lingering metallic bite of old iron-based blood on the air. For a moment, the sickly sweet scent of various bodily fluids overwhelmed his senses, and he fought not to wrinkle his nose as he noticed the patches of dried crust on his skin. Though it represented a rather abrupt change in subject, he told McCoy, “I am in need of the facilities.”

 

“I’ll say you are.” McCoy winced right after he said it. “Sorry. Look, let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?” He lifted a hand toward Spock.

 

Spock leaned away and hunched in on himself to avoid it. “I do not require assistance.”

 

“I’d be surprised if you could make it across the room on your own. Stop standin’ on your damn pride, and let me help.”

 

Spock considered his outstretched hand for a moment, and loath as he was to admit it, he concurred with McCoy’s statement. He felt shaky from fatigue and a lack of proper nutrition, and his body echoed the intimation that crossing the room on his own, much less navigating the facilities, would be difficult at the present time. He glanced up and tried to convey his hesitance in spite of that. He knew McCoy well, had served with him for over two years now, and respected him as a fellow officer. And even though McCoy did not seem inclined to unwarranted judgment against him, he did not want to be any further exposed in his current state. Irrationally, he wished that Jim would return, though he could sense through the fuzz of his telepathy that Jim seemed distressed at the thought of being near him right now.

 

McCoy pursed his lips and retracted his hand, glanced about in consideration even though nothing in particular seemed to catch his eye, then strode to the open door of the quarantine room. He spoke quietly to someone in the hall, accepted a collection of medical equipment, and then punched the door panel to allow them privacy. Spock watched him as he found a clean counter surface, set his things down, and returned to where Spock sat. “Okay, look. I know you’re embarrassed.” He screwed his face up as Spock opened his mouth to protest and insisted, “You are, and don’t try to say otherwise. I know you. But you’re my patient, you’re in no state to be traipsing off back your quarters, you need a banana bag and a course of antibiotics according to my tricorder, and you’re filthy. So let’s just get this over with, okay?”

 

Further resistance would be illogical at this juncture. Spock wanted to resist anyway, but he had no grounds, and nothing he could say would be likely to banish McCoy from the room anyway. The sooner he allowed McCoy to assist and treat him, the sooner it would be over. He steeled himself and shuffled over to drop his legs off the side of the bed.

 

There had been many times over the course of their service together when Spock had been forced to admit that he harbored an unwarranted prejudice against McCoy’s ability to behave professionally. The only thing that Spock could sense through the thin barrier of the latex covering McCoy’s hands was the appropriate concern of a doctor for the wellbeing of his patient. Part of that dullness could be traced back to the suppressant, but most of it owed only to McCoy himself. Starfleet trained their doctors to deal with telepathic species, to employ rudimentary shielding and avoid an overwhelming susurration of thought and emotion while in contact with them. Spock knew this, and yet something about McCoy kept leading him to misplace that information on a distressingly frequent basis.

 

Spock submitted to McCoy’s care with as much grace as he could manage, but it continued to disturb him that Jim had left at this juncture. Surely, he could feel Spock’s distress through the link that they now shared. Was this not sufficient in human mores to bring him back to the room, to his mate, or did Jim’s revulsion at what Spock had done to him outweigh any obligation he may have otherwise felt toward a mate?

 

It was not logical to ask, and yet Spock could not seem to suppress the discontent that he was experiencing at the absence of his mate so soon after the fever. “Are you certain I did not harm the captain?”

 

McCoy paused in his use of the dermal regenerator over the abrasions mottling the skin of Spock’s right elbow. After a moment of apparently intense dithering, McCoy merely stated, “Almost done,” and resumed his ministrations.

 

Spock remained seated in the small bath area, but he could feel agitation growing like an itch beneath his skin, with an intensity to which he was poorly accustomed. Unnecessarily, he pointed out, “Jim is not here.”

 

Once again, the warbling of the dermal regenerator ceased, and McCoy turned his back on the pretense of rummaging through his medical kit, which he had placed in the bowl of the sink for easy access. “He was probably trying to spare you having to see him.”

 

“Why would he think that course of action appropriate?”

 

The sigh that erupted from McCoy’s mouth bore every indication of weariness, whereas in Spock’s experience, that mannerism from the doctor should have been one of exasperation instead. “Because the way he sees it, he coerced you into having sex with him, never mind that it saved your life, and you flipped out when he tried to touch you after it was over. He came to the very reasonable conclusion that after everything that just happened – ” McCoy gestured to the mess of the quarantine chamber all around them, “ – you didn’t want him near you.”

 

“That is absurd.”

 

“It’s a perfectly reasonable emotional response.”

 

“Then Jim is laboring under a misapprehension. You must explain his error to him so that he can return.”

 

McCoy sighed, and for a moment, Spock was surprised that McCoy did not simply leave to do as he had been ordered. “You’re not completely back to normal, Spock. Let’s not go jumping into anything until you can think clearly here, all right?”

 

“Jim is my mate now.” Spock felt his thoughts grind to an abrupt halt. “Unless he does not wish to be so. I will not…he should not consider himself bound to me. I would release him if he wished it.” In so far as he was able. The words left an unpleasant taste on his tongue, a curious sensation. Synesthesia?

 

“Chin up.” McCoy shined an instrument into each of his eyes and then turned back to his kit before answering. “Spock, in human terms, and under Federation law, Jim committed several crimes over the course of the past six days. Desertion, dereliction of duty, assault, sexual assault, kidnapping, mistreatment of an officer under his command – ”

 

“In Vulcan culture, his actions are to be commended. I would likely have died, or else caused injury to someone less suited. The mothers of my clan owe him a debt for my life.”

 

“We’re talking military penal codes here, Spock. Not cultural ones.”

 

Spock stared at McCoy’s uniform insignia, but the only rebuttal he could come up with was to ask, “Does he not wish to be my mate?” He knew that it was not a logical response in this instance, and yet it was the only thought that he could seem to hold in his mind. There were still faint lickings of old banked fire stirring within him, and though the fever had passed, he needed his mate. Jim’s abrupt retreat had left him cold and confused.

 

When Spock finally looked at McCoy’s face, he was given the opportunity to watch it go sad and soft. “Jim is human,” McCoy told him, his voice forceful and yet kind in its intensity. “And he’s ashamed of what he did to you. Yes, that’s a human reaction and a human moralization, but it’s so deeply ingrained in our culture... It was very hard for him, Spock.”

 

Spock tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but he had nothing to say in response. Jim had forced himself to do this. Of course he had. Jim would do anything to save the life of a crew member. He was selfless like that.

 

McCoy’s voice gentled. “You know you’re within your rights to press charges.”

 

Spock jerked his head up. “Why – ”

 

“I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t make sure that you understand that. You don’t have to do it now. You can think about it, and if you decide later – ”

 

“I will not.” Spock would not compound this by ruining Jim’s career. It would be cruel and unjust, and above all, ungrateful for the gift of his continued existence.

 

“Look, you shouldn’t make any rash decisions now. You’re still a bit off, hormonally. It could be affecting your judgment.”

 

Spock blinked at him very deliberately. “No.” To both the implication that his judgment was impaired, and to the idea that Jim should be prosecuted for setting aside his own moral objections and disgust in order to honor the biological imperative of an outworlder.

 

From the expression on McCoy’s face – a perplexing mixture of relief and resignation – it appeared that he understood both applications of Spock’s reply. “Well, I won’t say I’m not glad about that.”

 

The inexplicability of the situation compelled Spock to ask for clarification’s purpose, “You wish me to press charges?”

 

McCoy’s reply was immediate. “Of course not! It’s just…it’s hard to explain, Spock.”

 

“Because of your human moralizations?”

 

The question was not meant to be provocative or specist, but McCoy nearly took it that way. After glaring for a moment with narrowed eyes, he relented and merely replied, “Yes.” His face gentled and he quirked an eyebrow in a pale imitation of Spock’s customary facial expression. “And because Jim is my friend, no matter what he does.” He fixed Spock with a look replete with an intimidating degree of discernment. “And so are you, even though I know you don’t think so. It’s how I feel, and that makes it difficult, you see?”

 

Spock blinked. “No. We are both alive and well. Is that not the desired outcome?”

 

“Well…yes, but – ”

 

“Then I fail to see the source of your difficulty.”

 

McCoy groaned and smeared a hand haphazardly over his face. Spock had seen such an action multiple times in his observances of humans. Did it actually help to clarify the thought processes somehow? Spock was aware of the concept of using physical movements to trigger neural and emotional outcomes. He had once noted that changing and straightening the posture could improve a human’s level of self-confidence at any given moment. Perhaps physically wiping an emotional expression from one’s face could result in clarity of thought. He would have to study this at a later date.

 

Spock dropped his gaze, aware that watching McCoy fumble for a rational response would likely result in further annoyance. He tried not to frown at his knuckles, crusted as they still were with the brown, dried residue of iron-based human blood caught in the creases and wrinkles of his skin. His mind flashed with a disconcerting lack of warning to Jim’s fingers shaping his into the _ozh’esta._ Physical expression leading to an emotional bond. Was that coercion? Was that what McCoy was trying to explain to him? That Spock’s favorable disposition toward his mate was a sham born from a quirk of his biology? That it was not real?

 

The wash cloth held up to dangle in front of his nose served as an effective breakwall for his wandering thoughts. Spock accepted it from McCoy’s outstretched fingers and then turned his back on McCoy while he washed in the stall using a combination of antibacterial solution and sonics, seated the whole time in deference to the persistent weakness and vertigo.

 

Just as he was finishing up, McCoy announced, “Your father’s waiting in guest quarters, by the way.”

 

Spock nearly dropped the cloth he was using to scrub beneath his fingernails. An understandable lapse, surely.

 

“Had to confine him there, and let me tell you, that was no damn picnic.”

 

In Spock’s experience, a picnic was an overly-complicated meal excursion with inexplicable social underpinnings. It seemed an apt comparison for a human to make concerning a Vulcan’s behavior. “I am unaware of receiving orders to embark on a diplomatic mission. As you know, I was relieved of duty prior to my current incapacitation.”

 

McCoy ceased whatever aimless activity he had taken up on the other side of the stall partition in order to afford Spock with an illusion of privacy while he monitored his patient’s progress. His head appeared around the corner, but only his head. “Spock, you comm’d the consulate and all but left a suicide message with his aide.” His features turned hard like granite. “Which we are going to have a discussion about, by the way. You don’t get to just do that.” And then he softened again. “He isn’t here on a mission. He’s here because his son was in trouble and needed him.”

 

As if to refute that, Spock glanced down at himself, worn and thinned but intact. “I am perfectly well now,” he pointed out. “Does my father distrust your reports? I can explain to him that you are to be considered my Healer. That should resolve any friction on this matter.”

 

McCoy blinked. Several times, in fact, and then he set something down where Spock could not see it before he rounded the partition and plucked the washing cloth from Spock’s hand. He shut off the sonics a moment later and then draped a towel over Spock’s nakedness as if this made any difference in conversation. “You’re gonna scrub yourself bloody,” he complained as he knelt down in a crouch. In a complete non-sequitor, McCoy explained, “Spock, your father thought he was coming to claim your body. Do you understand? His aide passed on a very disturbing message, so he read your medical files and jumped to what I think was a perfectly logical conclusion under the circumstances.”

 

“My father does not have access to my medical files.” Spock should not have bothered wasting breath on that, since clearly, Sarek did. “You are bound by an oath of confidentiality,” he accused, since his first statement seemed inappropriate to the situation.

 

McCoy bristled, “Your father is an extremely gifted computer hack, you damn idiot. In fact, now that I think about it, seems to be where you got it from. Neither one of you has any sense of boundaries when you think you’re right about something.”

 

Spock merely narrowed his eyes at that for a moment, and then said, “I would greatly appreciate a clean set of clothing.” He paused to consider his next request, but his emotional state was already compromised and the man who had mated him would not consent to see him. Spock could not quite persuade himself out of saying, “After I have dressed, I would like to see my father.”

 

A tiny smile curled up one side of McCoy’s mouth. “I think he’d like that. I’ll have some food taken to your quarters for both of you. I imagine you’re damn near starvin’ by now, but you’ll be exhausted soon enough, and I don’t need to keep you in sick bay as long as you keep your calories up for the next week or so. Just don’t fight it when your body wants rest, you hear me? You’ve still got a few days before you’ll be back to full strength.” He ducked out of the sonic booth just long enough to procure clothing from a shelf somewhere that Spock had not noticed upon entering. “Can you dress yourself, or do you need a hand?”

 

Spock accepted the sickbay jumper that McCoy held out to him. “I believe I can manage.”

 

“Just be careful standing up,” McCoy said, turning his back but remaining present. “Even with the hypos, your blood sugar’s dangerously low and you’re liable to pass right out if you move too fast.”

 

All of this was information that Spock could have surmised for himself, but he remained silent on that point. Curiously, McCoy’s fussing soothed a part of Spock that remained unsettled after his recent ordeal. Perhaps it was the reminder, however emotional, that someone cared about him enough to be present. This was not to say that Jim’s absence defied explanation. Spock knew that Jim cared; he would not still be alive otherwise. But he also knew that Jim had struggled to get through the past several days, and that at this juncture, he was trying very hard to keep his disgust and loathing confined to a place where Spock would not feel it through their newly minted bond. His success was marginal at best. Perhaps that was why Spock’s stomach persisted in churning on itself.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Spock entered his quarters with McCoy at his back. With every attempt at dignity, Spock leaned into the wall and fairly staggered into the antique wooden chair that stood near the divider beside his lyre. He could feel his heart pounding against his diaphragm and his breath sounded harsh above the rush of blood in his ears.

 

McCoy knelt down in front of him with a tricorder. “We may have to give you a few vitamin boosters, but for now, a big meal and a spot of good old natural sleep will do more good than any number of hypos.” He collapsed his instruments and shoved them away in the medical pouch that he wore slung across his shoulder. “Is there anything you need before your dad shows up?”

 

Spock made a monumental effort to regain control of his breathing and looked up at McCoy. “Jim?”

 

It didn’t seem possible for McCoy to look both uncomfortable, angry and incredibly sad at the same time, but he did. “Oh, Spock.” It came as more a sigh than words.

 

Spock nodded simply to put an end to the struggle that he could see McCoy going through in an attempt to provide a negative response in a kind manner. “I have no requirements at this time.” Something in McCoy’s face conveyed his gratitude, and Spock felt the slightest hint of warmth in the air between them. Unsure of where the impulse came from or why it chose to manifest now, of all times, Spock said, “I was wrong.”

 

“Oh?” McCoy’s eyes crinkled up in unusual places. “What about?”

 

“You _are_ my friend,” Spock told him. He watched McCoy’s features smooth out suddenly and added, “You are a very good friend. I regret saying otherwise.”

 

McCoy dropped his eyes, blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and then looked up. “Hell of a way to catch a man off guard.”

 

Spock nodded and allowed his own eyes to crease. From the manner in which McCoy’s face changed yet again, Spock knew that he had correctly interpreted the typical Vulcan expression as one of fondness. The sound of the door chime startled Spock back to stoicism, and he winced at the way his mind twinged around the tiny point of Jim within. For a moment, with McCoy watching him, he had almost been able to forget that it was there, like a paper cut that one fails to notice until one sees the blood.

 

“Right.” McCoy pushed himself to his feet, his expression once again that of the composed, impartial doctor. “I’ll get that; you stay put.”

 

As he had not intended to attempt to rise yet, Spock merely did as he was told and watched McCoy admit his father to the room. It took some effort not to allow his surprise at Sarek’s appearance to show. Spock had not often seen his father so obviously distressed, the last time being at the destruction of Vulcan. He quickly dismissed this thought, however, as the more likely explanation for Sarek’s harried appearance was illness. Spock averted his gaze and concentrated on taking deep, meditative breaths. He must remain in control of his logic. Too much time among humans had eroded his natural Vulcan inclinations; he found himself too often imagining frivolous, emotional motivations in situations where there were none, and his father, for one, would not appreciate this tendency being applied to him.

 

“Spock?”

 

Spock startled at his father’s voice and looked up. For a moment, he was confused by McCoy’s absence, as he had not heard the doctor leave. His concentration was lax; he must remedy this oversight. Spock straightened in his chair, mindful that rising now would not be wise, considering his current physical weakness, and addressed his father. “I apologize for causing you to make an unnecessary journey.”

 

Sarek merely blinked at him.

 

“As you can see, there is no cause for concern,” Spock added. He waited a second time for a verbal response, and again, received none. Perhaps Sarek required clarification. “My Time has passed, though I regret to inform you that the bond will likely have to be severed.” Again, Spock paused for a response that did not come. “It is unfortunate that you were forced to make the journey to the Enterprise in ill health. I trust there will be no lasting effects?”

 

Unexpectedly, Sarek stepped toward Spock and lowered himself to his knees much as McCoy had just minutes before. “I am not ill, my son.”

 

It would be rude for Spock to then inquire as to the true cause of Sarek’s disheveled appearance, so he said nothing.

 

“Your bondmate,” Sarek said. Something about his tone was overly cautious to Spock’s ears. “He does not want you?”

 

Spock swallowed. The choice of pronoun alone indicated that Sarek knew who had seen him through his Time, which meant that he likely knew far more than just that. Spock would have preferred to keep his shame private. He allowed himself the luxury of breaking eye contact in order to better twist his hands together in his lap.

 

As Spock was not watching, Sarek’s touch took him by surprise. He nearly shied away from it, but froze instead, limbs rigid, at the last second. He allowed his father’s fingertips to remain resting against his hair. He did not, however, consent to look up when he replied, “He is…he feels intense…disgust at what occurred.” The admission alone, ugly words spoken aloud, served to crystalize them somehow, and Spock swallowed with unaccustomed difficulty. “He is filled with loathing at the thought of it. He attempts to conceal it, but he is not adept at such things. He has been ill once already since we parted, just from thinking of it.” Spock tightened his fingers and breathed hard to control himself. This was bad enough without displaying weakness to his father. Sarek would not appreciate seeing his son embarrass himself in such a manner, proof of the weakness of his human blood, no more excusable now than it ever was.

 

Something must have made its way through the light touch, however, because Sarek snatched his hand back with a hiss.

 

“I apologize,” Spock whispered. “It would be better to speak after I have had sufficient time to meditate and reinforce – ”

 

The shock at having his face grabbed was startling in its intensity. Spock flinched rather violently with a breath of air caught hard in his throat, his muscles locking in an effort to be still. He stared at his father with wide eyes, waiting for the correction that he knew he deserved for his lapse of control. In front of him, Sarek’s nostrils flared. He looked…stricken? “Is that how I make you feel?” he demanded, and Spock twitched from the force of it. “Spock – ”

 

“You did not want a human son.” Spock tried to back himself out of Sarek’s grip, but as he already sat leaning back in his chair, the effort proved ineffective. When would the correction come? He would almost welcome the intrusion at this point, just to end some of his emotional turmoil. “Further, there was every expectation that due to my unique genetics, I would prove unviable in the long term. You need not concern yourself in this matter. You provided guidance and a stable family environment, as expected of a father. I understand your logic in preferring distance in other aspects of my upbringing.”

 

Sarek stared at him. There was no emotion in his face, not exactly, but neither was he impassive as befit a Vulcan. Seeing him thus was unsettling, moreso because he had not yet retreated, and Spock had no choice but to endure the invasive touch and the threat of further scrutiny. His voice faint, Sarek asked, “You believe you were not wanted?”

 

“Illogical,” Spock snapped. “If I were not wanted, such effort would not have been expended to ensure my creation.”

 

After a further series of tense moments, Sarek murmured, “Data points? You…believe that your worth comes only from…scientific data points?”

 

Completely against his will, Spock felt his lip curl into some kind of a snarl. “I did not give you permission to take my thoughts.”

 

Sarek blinked and finally removed his hands. Spock could not contain the abrupt breath that he took; the relief was too great. He watched Sarek collect himself, and the fact that collection was necessary only served to further disquiet Spock’s already disrupted mind. Sarek regained his feet and moved to the table where a meal had been laid out in covered dishes. When he spoke, his voice betrayed a strain that had not been there previously. “You require nourishment. Remain seated and I will bring it to you.”

 

Unsettled, and now irritated at the unforgivable imposition – even from a father to his son – Spock stated, “That is not necessary. You are free to pursue your other obligations.”

 

Sarek had picked up a plate, which he now commenced to study with undue concentration. “I have no other obligations at this time.”

 

Spock’s eyebrow ticked. “Your aid stated otherwise when I commed the consulate.”

 

“My aid was mistaken,” Sarek snapped. He sounded much more himself for having done so. “Which dish do you prefer? There is one of carrot and sweet potato soup made to resemble plomeek, and another of mashed turnips and cauliflower with garnish and seasoning.”

 

“Father – ”

 

“I have made many mistakes with you; I see that now. You were not meant to perceive yourself as unworthy or unwanted. You were always wanted.”

 

Spock snorted in spite of himself, the sound of which served to draw Sarek’s startled gaze away from the plates. “I was wanted,” Spock agreed. “But I was not _what_ you wanted. And you were disappointed by the part of me that was too human.”

 

“It was not disappointment,” Sarek insisted. “You needed to be strong. Stronger, in fact, than your age mates.”

 

“So you have often said - because of my weaker genetic constitution and the threat of emotions that I could not contain.”

 

“Because of their prejudices,” Sarek corrected. “Because if given half the chance, they would have ruined you. I have no excuse for not noticing what my behavior did to you when you were a child. Amanda was often in the habit of reminding me that you left Vulcan in part because of me.”

 

Spock stared for a moment. “Why would she say such a thing to you?”

 

“Because it is true,” Sarek replied. “And because she carried much anger towards me for not finding a way to connect with you. For not forging a bond between us. For being…too afraid to do so. I feared what it would do to me should a human-Vulcan hybrid prove...unviable over the long term. But that was not my only misgiving.” Sarek stepped forward, but he remained well out of reach – polite Vulcan distance. He clasped his hands in front of himself and looked down, toward Spock’s bared feet. “As you know, I shared a parental bond with Sybok. You may not be aware that it was…toxic. To both of us, I believe. His emotions were strong, and there was much sickness in them that I was ill equipped to manage.” He looked up now. “I see now that much of my reticence with regards to you came from a fear of your human side, and of the emotions that I believed you would one day express in excess, like your brother. Severing the bond with him was a traumatic experience, one that even your mother felt through her bond with me. I irrationally feared that the same would happen should I forge a bond with you. I believed that it was my own inability to manage the bond – to deal with his emotional states – which led to Sybok’s dissociation. If I had caused the same thing to happen to you, Spock… If I had caused you to become like him, and then lost you as well because of my own inadequacy… It seemed logical at the time to avoid that possibility.”

 

Spock shook his head. “I find it highly unlikely that you are to blame for Sybok’s delusions.”

 

Sarek offered a measured blink in return. “None of us can be certain of that. Unlikely as it is, it was always a possible explanation. And I was not willing to risk it with you.” He blinked. “It was wrong of me. In my own narcissism, I failed to see that I had deprived you of the support and acceptance that you needed in order to thrive to your full potential. Sybok was right in his many criticisms of my role as father to you both.” He took another step forward, and Spock watched his fingers tighten over themselves, as if he were resisting the urge to once again put his hands on Spock. “I have never felt such devastation as when I believed that you were dead, and that your last thought may have been that I was not pleased to have you as a son. Worse was the thought that you had not turned to me for help, as if you had no right. Your shipmates were better clan to you than your own father, and I cannot debate your choice to rely on them, as you were obviously correct to do so.”

 

There was only silence after that, and Spock found himself staring at the air vent, listening to the quiet hum and hiss of it as he processed his father’s words. Finally, he looked back to find Sarek’s back turned, his hands resting on the asenoii in the meditation nook on the other side of the room. Spock didn’t know what to say to any of this, so in the end, he remained silent.

 

“You should eat,” Sarek stated, still facing away, though he at least straightened. “You require nourishment and then rest. Do you wish me to remain?”

 

Spock felt himself scowling, and really, he could not expect his controls to be what they should so soon after his recent ordeal. Rebuilding those would take time. He hated his own weakness regardless, and from that came a spiteful, small part of him that wanted his father to hurt too - to hurt properly for everything he had just said to him. He didn't entirely understand the impulse, but he did recognize resentment. Sarek had criticized Spock's emotional expression for so long that it had become the one overriding characteristic that defined Sarek in Spock's mind. And now Sarek stood before him speaking of his emotions without shame, as if it were natural to do so. Irrationally, Spock felt as if Sarek had taken his father from him, because this man - Spock did not know this man. “I wished many things once, but to wish is not logical. You taught me that.”

 

On the other side of the room, Sarek merely breathed for a moment with his eyes fixed on the asenoii, and then he visibly gathered himself. When he turned, he was the Ambassador once more; no trace of the repentant father remained.“As you say. I will leave you to your much needed rest. Perhaps after you have recovered further, we may speak more productively. Be well, Spock.”

 

He was gone before Spock could summon enough of any reaction to respond. Ironic how Sarek’s departure caused so much more unrest than his presence, but somehow, that had always been the case for Spock. Instinctively, he reached for some comfort, his mind going immediately to his new bond, but he shut that down before he could do more than ascertain Jim’s continued existence. Jim did not wish to see him. Jim was made sick by him now.

 

At a loss, Spock struggled to reach the comm switch and punched the code for McCoy’s office to request his assistance. Then, he held himself rigid in his chair until the doctor arrived. Spock would never be able to express his gratitude to McCoy for simply nodding when Spock asked him to remain while he ate and, finally, slept.

 

* * * * *


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note in the end notes if you want to check that before reading, but it's spoilery and is not really necessary before reading the chappy. No warnings to be made, just a sort of FYI.

_Spock stared at his fingers pressed to the transparent aluminum on the other side of the engine room, his hand forced into the shape of the ta’al. Words reached his ears like tin through the speakers. “…needs of the many…or the one…have been and ever shall be…do not grieve…” Green blood and bits of burned, ruined skin smeared across the clear surface as the strength in Spock’s arm gave out. Spock’s eyes blindly tracked toward Kirk but couldn’t quite focus on him. The radiation had already taken his sight. Kirk’s own hand echoed Spock’s, fingers nearly nerveless where he tapped at three inches of radiation shielding as if he couldn’t understand why it was there between them. “Spock.”_

_Beside him, Jim watched as Kirk slumped against the glass opposite the body of his friend. Spock glanced to his left and examined Jim’s affect. “What is this place?”_

_Jim looked away from the crumpled image of an older version of himself. “You have a terrible habit of sacrificing yourself so that I don’t have to.”_

_After spending a moment’s consideration on this statement, Spock replied, his voice careful as he picked through the sentence, “I am not aware of any such propensity.”_

_“The Jellyfish was just more of the same, Spock.”_

_Spock started to rein in the shaking of his head, but then gave into the impulse. This was mindspace, after all, and Jim was his bondmate. There was no need for censorship here. “I do not have a death wish.”_

_“Not as such.” Jim peered sidelong at Spock as if he knew something that Spock did not. “You know, you told me once that McCoy accused you of putting yourself in danger so often because you were afraid to live with yourself. Because dying was easier than having to feel what it’s like to be alive.”_

_“Jim, no such thing has ever occurred. The doctor has never made such an accusation.”_

_“On the Roman planet,” Jim insisted. “Don’t you remember?”_

_Perhaps this was not mindspace after all. Dreams would not be unexpected in the wake of the stresses of the past several days. But was this his dream or Jim’s?_

_“Never mind,” Jim said. His attempt at a reassuring smile seemed more a thing of pity. “I still forget sometimes – you don’t remember those things.”_

_Spock glanced away to where McCoy, thinned and worn and aged beyond his time, was trying to coax Kirk away from the transparent aluminum that shielded the core, and Spock’s lifeless body. The tableau disturbed him on some level that he was not willing to contemplate, so he turned again to face Jim. “What things?”_

_“Things from before the fal-tor-pan. Not all of your memories ever came back, or at least they didn’t all come back right. I tried to give you as many of them from my own perspective as I could, but…” He shrugged and offered a sheepish, comfortable smile. “Human recall being what it is, I know that there are still some gaps in there.” He tapped one index finger against his temporal lobe and then frowned, pensive. “Interesting, though, how this was the last time you sacrificed yourself for me, or even tried to. You either learned your lesson, or whatever I gave back to you, it put you back together the wrong way. Maybe you never remembered how it really was between us because all you had after you died was my own…myopic view of our lives to draw from. And there was never really any depth to that part of me – not like there was to you.” Jim nodded in Kirk’s direction, and something about the gesture betrayed some pale brand of disgust – pastel shades of emotion. “He used to wonder if you stopped loving him after this because so many things were missing from you when you came back. And he was too much of a coward to ask, in case you finally had.” After a moment, Jim lifted his eyes into the middle distance, his mouth a thin scar set in a grim line across his face. “He never deserved you, but at least by the end, he knew it. What does that say about me, do you think?”_

_Spock had no idea what he was talking about, so instead of addressing any of it, he asked, “Jim, can we leave this place?” He balked at how small his voice had become, but he persisted nonetheless. “Please. I do not wish to be here.” To his right, his body was already rapidly breaking down due to the intense radiation. He did not want to watch this. He did not want_ Jim _to watch this. The reflex to check his own fingers, his own skin, for evidence of what he could see in front of him, threatened to overwhelm him. “Surely there are better places for a conversation?”_

_Jim didn’t respond until after he had watched McCoy and Scotty all but drag Kirk, glassy-eyed and empty-faced, past them and out of engineering. “He was haunted by this. Spock was, I mean – the other one. I tried not to show it to him – Kirk tried – whatever. We tried not to let Spock see it, but you know how you are. Tenacious.” A fondness appeared on Kirk’s face the way that bloated, dead bodies float up to the calm surface of still water. Jim turned that expression on Spock, and macabre as it was, Spock still opened his mouth to taste the warmth, however tepid, on the air that came with it. “Or perhaps,” Jim said, “just plain stubborn.”_

_All of the sharp edges of Spock’s expression softened to match Jim’s. “As a Terran mule,” he murmured. His voice was deeper, more like gravel than he could ever recall it being before. Warmer. Familiar like the grooves on old friends’ faces. Like smiles that came only from the corners of eyes so that no one else would see them._

_Jim’s smile turned to an outright grin. Behind him, nothing moved now. Kirk had left; he had no further memory of this place at this time to offer. The grin faded. “What are we going to do, Spock?”_

_As Spock did not know what he was supposed to do something about, he said nothing._

_Things began to move again. Spock glanced to the left and saw McCoy come back into engineering. The doctor’s face was not right; he looked angry with his mouth set in a grim line, but everything else was far too tight. Spock and Jim watched the doctor approach the transparent aluminum and crouch down next to Spock’s body. The organic tissues encased within the red uniform jacket were losing cohesion and Spock’s stomach turned at the sight. He had to look away. In his periphery, McCoy struck his fist against the clear barrier and began hollering at Spock that he was an idiot and a stupid hobgoblin and an asshole, and they could have found some other way to fix this, and then he bowed his head until his forehead touched the transparent surface of the containment chamber and heaved out a series of ugly, gasping, wet sounds._

_“God, Bones.” Jim made an abortive move toward his friend and then pulled himself back with a visible effort. “It didn’t even occur to me. He carried your katra for weeks; you, other you, must have had some of his memories floating around in there too.”_

_Spock glanced sidelong at Jim, his profile splintered and older, stockier than his face. After he turned more fully and squinted at Jim, Spock stated, “Your eyes are hazel.”_

_Jim nodded, distracted.” Yeah.”_

_“They are supposed to be blue.”_

_“They were hazel first.” Jim’s eyes skirted around Engineering and eventually landed near Spock. “Do you want to know what a terrible person I am?”_

_Spock shook his head. “No.”_

_Jim ignored him; perhaps, he hadn’t heard Spock’s response at all. “I find myself wishing I hadn’t buried you on Genesis. That way, you would have stayed dead instead of making red matter.”_

_An obstruction lodged itself in Spock’s throat, caught between his trachea and hyoid bone. “Where is the logic in wishing me dead when you yourself forbade me from wishing the same?”_

_Jim looked down briefly and then bumped his shoulder against Spock’s. “Don’t worry; that’s not even the worst part.”_

_Spock tried not to allow any emotion to show on his face, but he feared that he was entirely unsuccessful. Against his better judgement, he asked, “What is the worst part?”_

_In front of them, McCoy smeared his hands over his face and forcefully cleared his nasal passages. Jim afforded him the dignity of not staring at him the way that Spock did. “If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change it. I would bury your body on that planet the same as I did before, and to hell with the consequences whenever they come.” He cocked his head toward the control panels for the warp core. “I guess I’m selfish that way.”_

_“You are not selfish,” Spock said._

_Kirk smiled, but it was a sick thing. “Aren’t I? I’d let an entire planet die just so that I didn’t have to live without you. And yet…”_

_Spock wanted to refute this, but he could sense that he was not entirely party to this conversation. It was one that Jim had obviously conducted with himself before._

_“And yet, even knowing that I can’t live without you, that I’d end a world – two worlds – in order to keep you long enough for me to die first, I still take you for granted.”_

_“Jim, stop this.” Spock moved to stand between Jim and the radiation chamber, blocking his view of the decomposing body of his own self. “You are not to blame for Vulcan-that-was. You are not at fault for my creation of red matter.”_

_Jim snorted. “Of course I am, Spock. The first time you didn’t stay dead was an accident – a coincidence. Every time after that was a choice.”_

_“What times after this?” Spock shifted with Jim, countered his attempt to look past Spock’s shoulder. “There were no choices. You did not choose this any more than I did. Jim – ”_

_“Of course it’s a choice now!” Suddenly, Jim’s temper tore out of him and he shoved at Spock harder than Spock was prepared for. “It’s all_ wrong _, don’t you see?! This – all of this – it’s_ wrong _! I’m not supposed to be a captain yet; I’m not even ready for this! I’m supposed to be on the Farragut. I never served with Pike; I was a lieutenant under Captain Garrovick.. And you – you were never my instructor, Spock – you didn’t program training simulations at the academy when I was a student, and you didn’t teach until after the missions were over. I did – I was a student instructor for my last year at the academy. We never even met on Earth. You took the Starfleet entrance exams and they passed you based on the education you already had from Vulcan with a rank of Lieutenant. You had to take swimming lessons to pass the last of the physicals, and that was it! You shipped out for the_ Enterprise _right away as an astrophysicist and computer expert under Captain April, and when April retired, you served under Pike for eleven more years as head of the science departments. That whole time – that_ whole time _, Spock – I served on the Farragut. I worked my way through the ranks until I was thirty-two years old and_ then _I was promoted to Captain and assigned to the Enterprise, and_ that _is how we meet!” The air punched from Jim’s lips as part of a bark of laughter that carried a sharp, hysterical edge. “I’m twenty-seven now, Spock. How fucked up is that?”_

_Spock breathed rapidly in sympathy with Jim’s own respirations, but he said nothing. Nothing at all._

_Before him, Jim grabbed at his hair and seemed to crumple without losing his feet. “Every time I let this happen the way it did the first time is a choice. Every time I don’t go there and fix it is a choice. I should have let you win your Kobayashi Maru. I should have taken your body back to Vulcan and buried you there and let you win.”_

_“It is not possible to win the Kobayashi Maru.” Why that should have been the part of Kirk’s tirade that he chose to address, Spock did not know. “It is, by definition, a no-win scenario.”_

_Kirk shook his head hard enough to yank his hair where he still grasped it in clenched fingers. “You’re wrong. It’s not no-win. I know that for a fact because while I_ cheated _at mine, you won yours. I watched you win.” He turned then and jabbed several fingers toward the body, now unrecognizable as Spock where it still remained behind the radiation shields. “That’s what it looks like when you win.”_

_Beside them, McCoy stood silent with moisture shining in smears across his cheeks, his face full of nothing. Spock looked down at his body and made every effort to keep his breathing steady. He could not, however, seem to make it anything other than shallow and rapid. “Admiral…”_

_“I don’t know if we can make it right this time.” Kirk finally took a shuddering breath and made a firm point of turning his back on the body behind the clear wall. He looked at Spock with hazel eyes and a face older than it was supposed to be. His hair curled more than Spock thought it normally did. “I’m a coward. I always have been, and you could never see that. I know the surefire way to set it right, Spock. Do you see? But I can’t…kill you. I can’t be the reason you stay dead, and you can’t ask me to do it. So there’s got to be something else, something we missed.”_

_In front of them, McCoy turned his back on Spock’s body and slid down to sit on his haunches with his back leaning against the glass, a parody of the position of the body inside the chamber._

_“I have to find a way to win this.”_

_Spock looked up in alarm. “No. I will not allow it.”_

_“It’s not your call.” Kirk wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t even look at Spock. “At some point, I’ve got to take the test without cheating. He never did. Don’t you see? James T. Kirk never had to face this. He doesn’t know.”_

_The silence rang loud in Spock’s ears and he looked down, first at his feet, and then over to McCoy’s. He fingered the thick white cuff of his red command uniform, and the captain’s braid that he found there. “Perhaps that is your strength.”_

_Kirk didn’t react at first, and then he swung around to face Spock. “What are you talking about?”_

_Spock frowned and attempted to remove the extra rank insignia from his sleeve, but it was sewn on. “You do not face death because you do not accept it. For you, it is not inevitable. That is not cheating; it is simply a form of ingenuity.” He looked up to find Kirk glaring at him. “I do know of what I speak, Admiral. Even when you died, you lived.” Ribbons in space – a beautiful ripple of paradise in the dark. “You live still, and he knows it.” Spock gestured to what used to be himself, half shielded behind McCoy. “How else would he still be able to go on? To live past you, and do so well enough to try to save a star? How could he have continued long enough to find his way here, to us, in this time, if his Jim were dead?”_

_Kirk picked his next words carefully. “He continued because his life did not end yet.”_

_Was this what pity felt like? Knowing something so profound, so vital, and yet also knowing that the man in front of him was not capable of knowing it as well? As gently as he could, Spock replied, “Yes, it did.” His Jim Kirk was long gone. Only the one in front of him remained, and he was a different man altogether. A man with blue eyes. A man who did not want to take advantage of a far more broken Spock who never did learn how to swim. A man who could not kill one Vulcan in order to save a billion others. “Admiral, if this is the only way to put it right, then Kaiidth. I could never be content, knowing what it cost to buy my life.”_

_His voice like a wisp of mist in a dark field, Kirk breathed, “I know.” He offered a sick smile and shrugged. “But you were always the better man.”_

_“That is not true.” Spock shook his head. “You are a good man. You – ”_

_“I am a man who will not pay for the future with the life of a man who loves him.” Kirk made a gesture that seemed intended to wipe away Spock’s immediate impulse to refute that. “And you are a man so conditioned to looking after my wellbeing that you would never make me kill you.”_

_Spock blinked at him. “You already had many opportunities to allow me to die by my own actions, and yet…”_

_Kirk nodded. “And yet.”_

_On the floor in front of them, McCoy stared. Something about his gaze seemed less blind than it should have, however. For a moment, his eyes sharpened and focused on Spock standing before him. They blinked at each other, and then McCoy ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets long enough that he could not see Spock anymore when he next looked up. Spock watched him shake his head and turn pensive. From the way he turned his head, he would surely have been able to see the remains of Spock’s body from the corner of his eye._

_“I do not know what you wish me to say,” Spock confessed, his eyes still trained on McCoy’s figure, still but for the expansion and contraction of his chest as he breathed. “Perhaps_ that _life is the one that was wrong. Perhaps burying me on Genesis was the solution, and there is nothing left to fix.”_

_Kirk’s head tilted, just a bit, and in Spock’s periphery, he straightened. His hands tugged at the hem of his uniform jacket, straightening it. Then he looked at Spock, at the side of his face, at his profile backlit by the lights surrounding what remained of Spock’s own body. “Are you suggesting that_ this _– letting Nero happen – is the real Kobayashi Maru?”_

_Without looking at Admiral Kirk beside him, Spock replied, “Yes.”_

_Kirk started to shake his head, and then he stopped and his face…crumpled. “The Spock I know would never advocate leaving billions dead just so that he could have a reality where he bonded with a version of me who loved him.”_

_“I advocate no such thing,” Spock countered sharply. “In case you have forgotten, billions die either way – Vulcans at Nero’s hand, or Romulans by mine, it makes little difference.”_

_“You didn’t kill them!”_

_“I let them die, did I not? How do you think it possible that I simply did not get there fast enough?”_

_“No one can predict a nova with that kind of accuracy, Spock – not even you. You thought you had time. You were wrong. But that doesn’t make you a killer.”_

_“It makes me remiss. Or, at the very least, it make me cunning.” Spock stared at Kirk, disturbed by the horror fighting to subsume itself beneath the skin of Kirk’s face. When it did not, not entirely, Spock continued. “The possibility should be explored that this life, our life,_ is _the fix. That we did this on purpose.”_

_“No.”_

_“Additionally, this may be irreversible. Nero destroyed the timeline by going back. There is no forward, no future, for us to go to and stop him before he travels back. Any attempt to stop him as he emerges into the past will itself disrupt the timeline. Your father’s ship, the rescue ships – they will know. They will see, and change will be wrought regardless.”_

_“That’s not true – there’s a way, Spock – there is! I know there is, I just have to – ”_

_“Cheat time?”_

_Kirk fell silent, his nostrils flared, and then he cast his gaze, heated and defiant, at Spock. One of his eyes was blue again._

_“This is not something you can pay a classmate to hack for you.”_

_“You can be a real bastard, you know that?”_

_Instead of answering, Spock looked at what was left behind the transparent radiation shield. McCoy’s body blocked some of it from view, but Spock could see more than enough of a sleeve, stained in decay and thick, gelatinous byproducts of decomposing flesh, to know that the braids on the cuff were those of a captain. “’It is a far, far better thing that I do,” he murmured, “than I have ever done.’”_

_“Dickens,” Kirk replied. Then he frowned and finished the quote, “’It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’” He looked up, over at Spock and then down to McCoy. He couldn’t seem able to bring himself to look beyond, to what was left of Spock’s far, far better thing. “You…knew. You knew?” He blinked and raised his eyes, but only far enough to stare into the middle distance. “You knew. That was you…trying to fix it. That…” Finally, he turned to Spock, and his face was horrified. “We’ve tried this before. We’ve tried to fix this. Oh…god. And I fucked it up.”_

_Spock shook his head, illogical as the gesture was since Kirk wasn’t looking at him. “Jim – ”_

_“I fucked it all up, I – and you killed yourself for this – ”_

_“Ashaya, don’t.”_

_“You…bastard! What kind of a fix is that? And you want me to believe that you_ don’t _have a death wish?”_

_“McCoy.”_

_Kirk sputtered, momentarily arrested, and then demanded, “What?”_

_“McCoy is here.”_

_* * * * *_

Spock blinked, his eyelids gummy, and allowed his brow to furrow at the scratching sensation of his inner eyelids sliding aside over dry, burning corneas. For a moment, he did not recognize his surroundings, and then the familiarity of his sleeping area washed over him like a balm.

 

“Hey, there.”

 

Mostly to himself, Spock mumbled, “McCoy is here.”

 

A rough chuckle drew Spock’s attention to his left, where McCoy sat holding a medical tricorder. “Last I checked, anyway.”

 

Spock frowned at the computer readout beside his bed. He had been asleep for less than two hours, but still felt compelled to say, “You remained?”

 

McCoy shrugged. “Well, you asked me to.”

 

His voice a rumble like gravel, Spock told him, “Illogical.”

 

“Yes, you are,” McCoy agreed. Except that was not what Spock had meant, was it? “You were havin’ some kind of dream for a while there,” McCoy remarked absently as he ran a feinberger over Spock’s torso and then up around his cranium. “If it had gone on for much longer, I would have woken you up. You were talkin’ out loud, arguing with somebody.”

 

Spock’s eyelids felt unusually heavy. “I apologize if I disturbed you.”

 

That earned him a frown as McCoy switched off his instruments. “What in blazes are you apologizing for?”

 

Surely, that was obvious even to McCoy, but he nonetheless repeated, “For disturbing you.”

 

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”

 

Since that appeared to be directed at a mythical ceiling deity rather than at Spock, Spock chose to ignore him. “Are Jim’s eyes still blue?”

 

McCoy blinked at him a few times, his forehead wrinkled. “What other damn color would they be?”

 

“I will take that to mean yes.” Spock struggled to get his elbows planted firmly enough to push himself into a seated position. Though McCoy stood and hovered about while Spock did this, his assistance proved unnecessary. Spock accepted the glass of water that McCoy held out to him, and then submitted to a neural scan.

 

“How is your head?”

 

“I assume that you refer to my telepathy.” Spock shifted where he sat and allowed himself a deep exhale before reporting, “I believe that the bond is stabilizing, though it is still somewhat…disorienting.” He swallowed back a sharp bite of nausea that came from Jim. “I can…smell wrong things.”

 

McCoy tapped the readout of his tricorder. “You mean like olfactory hallucinations, or synesthesia?”

 

“Neither.” Spock became aware of the stench of molded crops, and tasted ash in the next breath he took. A distinctive scent, that of burning corpses. Spock had never smelt such a thing before. “The captain is having a nightmare now. Tarsus IV, I believe. It…smells bad.”

 

For a moment, McCoy visibly fought with himself over the desire to cut through the shared bathroom into the captain’s quarters. Finally, he scowled and resumed his scans of Spock. “Damn it. I wish he’d ask for help once in a while.”

 

Spock said nothing, as his attention had fixated on the need not to become physically ill.

 

“I can give you another suppressant,” McCoy offered. “If you need it.”

 

The option was tempting. “I cannot take suppressants for the rest of my life,” Spock replied though clenched teeth. He breathed through his nose, and though he knew that the smell was not real, that it was not in the room with him, every whistle of air through his nostrils seemed more putrid than the last. “I must learn to cope on my own.”

 

“You’ve never had a full bond before, of any kind.” McCoy snapped his tricorder shut and set it aside. “There’s nothing wrong with taking something to help you manage it until you adjust.”

 

As words were temporarily beyond him, Spock shook his head. He could smell other things now. Body odor, the rancid stench of the unwashed, sweat, acrid fear...male issue. And even as his stomach churned with nausea, he felt starvation like a hollow, living thing inside of him – a desperate creature unto itself.

 

Beside him, McCoy appeared to draw taught and quiver like a bowstring. “Stop bein’ so goddamn stubborn! It’s not a crime to need help sometimes!”

 

Spock may have intended to reply, but before he could, the oppression snapped apart and he gasped, his mind abruptly freed from Jim’s nightmare. He folded forward over his knees and gulped his lungs full, illogically greedy to taste nothing but the untainted air of his quarters again. The captain must have woken up.

 

“Chris Kringle on a cracker.”

 

Nonsensical as that was, Spock wrote it off as McCoy employing obscure euphemisms again – or of running different ones into each other. The feinberger whirred in Spock’s ear and he leaned away from it without lifting his head more or less out of his own lap.

 

A minute later, almost to the second, McCoy’s voice came soft over top of the harsher sounds of Spock swallowing down the urge to either be ill or rend something into pieces in retribution for Jim’s continued suffering by the hand of a genocidal, super-racial madman. “Is it that bad for him still?”

 

Spock pressed his lips between his teeth as if to keep his words hidden behind his teeth. Because yes, it was. “I have no answer that would not violate the captain’s privacy.”

 

That must have been more telling than Spock intended, because McCoy merely sighed and looked back at his medical instruments as if they had failed him somehow. “Alright. I’m due on shift in an hour, and I need to clean up and eat first.” He caught at Spock’s gaze in a manner that defied Spock’s immediate explanation – something to do with the odd flutter-flap of his hands as he leaned sideways. “I’d like you to wear a biomonitor for now, just in case. Your body is still settling, and I don’t even know what to make of your brain right now.”

 

Wordlessly, Spock held his wrist out for the monitor bracelet. The rest of what McCoy said didn’t merit a response, in Spock’s opinion. He was too tired still, and his stomach hurt as if it had actually been cramping around itself due to hunger. He could not imagine how Jim lived with this every day without it being bare for everyone to see. It must not always be this close to the surface, and Spock forced himself to breathe evenly through the knowledge that Jim’s forced isolation with Spock during his fever was likely what had brought it to prominence now.

 

McCoy finished clasping the monitor bracelet and switched it on. “Anything to report before I go? Headache, pain, dizziness?”

 

“Negative.” Spock twisted the bracelet until it rested comfortably over his tendons and the jut of his ulna. “I am only fatigued.”

 

“Hmm.” McCoy tapped at his tricorder a few times, and then looked up at him. The expression on his face could only be described as discerning. “You’ll contact me if that changes.” As that was not a question, Spock merely peered back at McCoy until the doctor’s nose wrinkled on one side. “Right. I’m leaving now.”

 

“I appreciate your assistance.”

 

McCoy waved a hand in front of his face as if he were clearing cobwebs from the air and walked toward the door. “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Obviously, McCoy had misunderstood, so Spock clarified, “You remained with me while I slept. That was not required of you as the Chief Medical Officer. It is appreciated.”

 

McCoy paused at the room divider, but he kept his back toward Spock. It seemed as if he were thinking about Spock’s expression of gratitude, but Spock couldn’t be sure. Finally, McCoy glanced back at him and smiled. It was a small thing, but it seemed more genuine to be understated like that. All he said, though, was, “Good night, Spock.”

 

Spock inclined his head in return and watched McCoy stride out into the corridor. He felt as though he had just missed something vital, and though he tried to remain awake to parse it, he fell back to sleep with the mystery unresolved.

 

* * * * *

Spock gasped and flailed as he clawed his way out of another nightmare, blankets tangled like snakes around his legs. He struggled briefly before he managed to fling them away and free himself, and then he scrambled his way upright and fought against the urge to either hyperventilate or be sick. The shrill alarm that assaulted his ears defied explanation until he realized that it came from the biomonitor bracelet he was wearing. Gritting his teeth, Spock dug his nails in around the clasp until it popped off and fell silent. In the wake of it, the sound of his own breathing may have been deafening, but the whole of his hearing was temporarily caught up in his heartbeat and the sound of himself swallowing something thick and insubstantial in the back of his throat. His whole torso heaved at the force of his breathing.

 

A loud thump drew his attention to the door of the bathroom that he shared with the captain. The light clicked on, a thin sliver illuminating the carpet at the edge of the door track, followed by the clatter of toiletries scattering across the counter, and then retching. He made an abortive move toward the bathroom, but his own insecurity brought him up short. He could not determine whether Jim might have welcomed assistance or not.

 

Before he could override his natural inclination to allowing the captain his privacy, the comm alert sounded an open channel. “ _Spock. Spock, answer me!_ ”

 

Of course – the biomonitor. McCoy must have put it on him after he fell asleep so that he could return to sickbay without leaving Spock unattended. Spock leaned over and toggled the comm switch. “Doctor McCoy, I apologize. I am undamaged.” In the background, Jim turned on the sink and began splashing around in it.

“ _I’ll be the judge of that. What the hell just happened? I’ve got twelve alarms on you down here!_ ”

 

It occurred to Spock to lie, which seemed very human to him, and then it occurred to him to simply not answer. In the end, he said, “Each bracelet med-alert monitor is programmed to correspond to only one sickbay alarm, doctor.”

 

The comm line remained silent for a moment, and then McCoy snarled, “ _Stop bein’ funny. What happened?_ ”

 

Spock listened to Jim shuffling around in the bathroom, the flop of a towel hitting the floor, and then the brushing of teeth. His voice clipped, Spock replied, “Nightmare.” He didn’t see any reason to specify that it had technically been Jim’s nightmare again. McCoy started to say something else, but Spock interrupted him before he even processed the intention to speak. “I am in need of the facilities. Spock out.”

 

Without giving himself a chance to reconsider, Spock climbed his way unsteadily from his bunk and then pretended that his balance were not precarious enough to force him to prop his shoulder against the wall once he gained his feet. He tapped at the closed door panel with the nailed tips of several fingers. “Jim. Are you well?”

 

All of the soft movements on the other side of the door came to a stop. “Fine, Spock.” Jim’s voice sounded small, and it was not right. “Just give me a second and you can have the room.”

 

Spock did not want the room unless Jim was still in it. He also did not trust the tone of the captain’s voice when it came out thick and metallic like that. He wanted to go into the room before Jim vacated it. He wanted to ascertain the captain’s status for himself, possibly with his hands somehow. It occurred to him that he was being very Vulcan at the moment – that his instincts were that of a Vulcan toward his mate – and that Jim may not appreciate that considering the circumstances. Jim did not want a mate, after all, no matter the response of his body to Spock’s. Jim only wanted his first officer, and perhaps his friend as well.

 

He could smell Jim, though – smell the wet and the sick and the toothpaste, and the way that his mind sparkled in the dim places, and the warmth of him. Spock pushed himself into standing properly beside the door. His quarters were cold and sterile, and his equilibrium suffered from the unexpected and inappropriate absence of his bondmate. He tried to turn and go back to his bunk, but his hands acted independently of conscious thought and fumbled at the door panel. Neither of them had ever thought to make the bathroom doors lock from the bathroom side; they only prevented someone in the bathroom from entering quarters uninvited.

 

Jim straightened in surprise as the door panel slid aside, his torso bare and a sheet wrapped around his hips to preserve his modesty. His gaze strafed Spock and then he held a hand out to ward him off. “Right. Okay, I’m going.”

 

Spock staggered forward and grabbed at Jim’s wrist before he could retract it, his eyes drawn to bare skin. The sight that met his eyes stole his breath with the assault of a rush of memory. Spock could feel the sink of Jim’s emotions wafting about beneath his skin, the flutter of dark things held in check, a clench of nausea and the sense that he was falling apart a little bit and refusing to let it show. Spock wanted to demand that Jim explain – he wanted to grab him and hold him still, unwind the sheet and examine him, see all that he had done with his own eyes. Before he could do any of those things, or none of them, Jim pulled his wrist free and backed away until more than an arm’s length separated them in the small bathroom.

 

In contrast to Spock’s cutting memory of frantic urgency etched in red, Jim appeared only slightly worse for wear, corroborating McCoy’s repeated assertions that Spock had done him only superficial damage. Physically, at least. Spock could see several bite marks, but none that broke the skin. There were bruises at Jim’s wrists, and a few irregularly shaped mottles along forearms and biceps, but again, nothing serious enough to account for the violence of his memories of the last several days, hazy though they might be. The sheet did shroud the majority of Jim’s body from sight, however. Spock’s data on the matter may have simply been incomplete.

 

“Hey.” Jim reached out to grip Spock’s forearm, his face drawn with concern. “Should you be walking around?”

 

This confused Spock; surely, Jim should be afraid after what Spock had done to him. He swayed into the hand on his arm and tried to make sure that Jim’s eyes were the right color, but his sight blurred at the push of Jim’s mind against his. Spock tightened his hands around the towel bar and the sink edge in an effort to keep his feet beneath him.

 

Jim’s brow furrowed. “Are you okay? What do you need?” _Maybe it’s not over…? His eyes bruise muddy when he’s exhausted._ Concern moved about the air currents of the room, shaped like planetary magnetic field arcs. At least Jim did not fear him. Being met with that may have been beyond Spock’s ability to handle.

 

Though even if Jim did not have sense enough for it, Spock was afraid. He freely admitted that, if only to himself. He could feel himself panicking far below the surface of his own mind, like peering at fear from the surface of a shallow sea, down through the murk to the sediment settled on the sea bed with the other random detritus of marine life. The source of his panic eluded him, however, and outwardly, he remained calm.

 

Jim’s brows drew together and down, and he stepped closer, peering into Spock’s face as if it were not familiar to him. “Spock?” Jim shifted and Spock’s eyes fixed themselves on the mirror reflection of Jim’s back. There were a few scores along his flanks like those formed by the long drag of fingernails, and a mottled mark on his hip bone. Again, nothing to justify the blood and screaming that Spock could recall. Perhaps Jim had already treated the worst of the injuries, but then, why leave these particular ones for show? He must have wanted Spock to see them – to have evidence of Spock’s mistreatment of him.

 

Spock’s breathing caught and then smoothed out again of its own accord. His autonomous controls, the ones he had incorporated into his unconscious expression as a child, only partly functioned as they were intended. He would need several sessions of meditation to entirely restore them. Spock looked back at Jim, intending to say something – offer an apology, perhaps, though he could not even begin to imagine how to word something that would account for _this_. Nothing came out.

 

Jim seemed to understand something, though, and the warmth in the back of Spock’s mind shivered a bit, and dimmed. Jim nodded and gathered a sheet around himself as he backed off out of Spock’s space, his motions obvious and open. “Sorry.” He angled himself toward the door to his own cabin. “I’ll leave you be.”

 

Spock watched him move backwards, scrutinizing his movements for evidence of additional injury. The slight limp could have been caused by sleeping in an awkward position, though Spock found that unlikely under the circumstances. Nothing else seemed apparent. It occurred to him that Jim had somehow sensed his fear and disgust – likely through the link that continued to resonate within some ephemeral space buried in Spock’s mind – and reached the wrong conclusion as to its cause. This would mesh with Jim’s previous thought processes concerning Spock. Jim thought that the emotions were _of_ Jim, rather than _for_ him.

 

For no other reason than to stop Jim’s retreat, Spock observed, “You appear largely uninjured.”

 

Jim glanced up from the odd deference of keeping his eyes on the floor, as if Spock were a predator, which he might have been for all Spock really knew. Jim’s eyes creased with affection while the rest of his face made him appear sick. “I kept saying you wouldn’t hurt me.”

 

“But there was blood,” Spock blurted out. “I recall seeing your face covered in it. And I was holding you down – ”

 

The snap of something clattering against the countertop cut Spock off, and Jim had reached the door. “Hardly. You don’t need to worry about that, Spock. You weren’t yourself.” Neither of them reached to retrieve whatever had fallen.

 

“Captain?”

 

Jim chuckled weakly in response, without looking back. “I really don’t think that rank has any place with us now.” He activated the door panel and slipped through into his quarters.

 

In a moment of irrational panic, Spock scrambled his way across the room and all but fell in his haste to stop Jim from closing the door on him. An involuntary grunt of pain escaped him as his knees connected unexpectedly with the floor, and he managed to catch his upper body against the edge of the doorjamb. He had underestimated the effects of prolonged fatigue and a lack of adequate nutrition on his body; he evidently did not possess strength enough to stand unassisted at this juncture.

 

“Whoa.” Jim took a step toward him. “Are you okay?”

 

“Don’t.” Spock reached out to grasp the ankle nearest to him just quickly enough to stop Jim’s instinctive effort to step out of reach. “Please. I am not…I don’t…” He glanced down at his own body, only partially obscured by his sleep robe, aware of the flush that spread across his shoulders due to his embarrassment. Surely Jim had seen so much of him by now, however, that the sight of any part of his body should come as no shock? He released Jim in favor of pulling the robe more tightly about his torso. It was not logical to shield himself now, but it lessened the ephemeral sense of shame that he could feel welling up from within the less rational parts of his psyche. In the end, he merely repeated, “Please,” and hoped that Jim would understand.

 

Above him, Jim sighed, shuffled about, and then knelt down in front of him. “Do you need help? I can call McCoy.”

 

He probably did need help, but rather than bother with addressing any part of that, Spock pressed unsteady fingers to a bite mark on Jim’s shoulder. “Why has McCoy not treated these?” He followed when Jim tried to move his shoulder out from under Spock’s hand.

 

Jim sighed, and Spock felt the motion of it against his palm. “I wasn’t sure I should destroy all of the evidence yet. You know? Because I know what you told McCoy – he let me know – but you… Nobody catalogued them yet, and there might still be…charges.”

 

Spock stared unseeing at Jim’s knee, then trailed his eyes deliberately up to Jim’s face, past bruises and the ragged scrapes caused by fingernails, visible where the sheet did not cover him. He swallowed. “I see.” He tried to keep his voice even, but he could see by the shifting of Jim’s expression that he did not entirely succeed. Of course Jim would consider filing charges against him. Spock had assaulted his superior officer multiple times. He may have assaulted other crew members, too; he could not recall.

 

Jim nodded and started to push himself away again, palms pressed to the floor at the edges of Spock’s vision. “I’ll call McCoy, okay? Just hang on for a bit.”

 

Before he could go far enough for the door to close on him, Spock grabbed at the door jamb and blurted, “I’m sorry.”

 

A low sound made its way across the floor to Spock’s ears; it was not pleasant. “Don’t be. I knew what I was doing.”

 

Spock shook his head. “You did not, and yet you did it anyway.”

 

“Spock… Just don’t, okay? We shouldn’t even be talking to each other right now.”

 

Why? Why could he not talk to his mate? Spock knew that his mind was still somewhat scrambled – that his thoughts lacked clarity – but why should he not speak with his mate? Why should they remain parted? “Jim does not want a mate.”

 

In his periphery, Jim stopped retreating. “What did you just say?”

 

Spock worked hard to steady his heartbeat so that his breathing would also stabilize. “I assaulted him.”

 

Jim’s foot shifted closer again. “Hey. I’m right here. Why are you talking like I’m someone else?”

 

Spock blinked and lifted his head in spite of the way it seemed to weave unsteadily back and forth. He had read Arthur Conan Doyle as a boy – his mother had been fond of Terran classics. The arch nemesis Moriarity had been said to have a weaving head as well. Like a snake. It seemed fitting that Spock should emulate that. “I understand.”

 

“No, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing but gibberish going on in there right now. You don’t feel right.” Jim’s head swam in front of Spock’s face. “Am I hurting you?” He paused and Spock could almost feel the prodding in the back of his head where Jim was now anchored. To himself, Jim confirmed, “I’m hurting you.” He took a deep breath that seemed gasping nonetheless, and focused on Spock again. “Why would I want to – oh. _Oh_.” It appeared from his briefly distant, unfocused expression that the possibility of charging Spock with some form of assault had not occurred to him. He dropped his gaze back to Spock and eyed him from a slightly different angle. “Okay. As awkward as this is, when I said evidence, I was referring to evidence of what _I_ did to _you_.”

 

Bits of overheard conversations filtered back through Spock’s perfect recall. Surely, Jim did not consider saving his life to be a criminal act? “I have no grounds for filing a complaint.”

 

“I thought McCoy explained…I mean, he said you refused, but…” Jim stared at him. “Okay. Um.” He seemed at a loss for words.

 

“I owe you my life,” Spock told him. “Or at the very least, I owe you for the kindness shown in not forcing me to turn to a stranger for relief.” He shifted in the hopes of lessening the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him and focused his gaze on the contrast of fabric against his fingers where they clutched at his sleep robe. “I am in your debt.”

 

“Debt? _Debt?!_ Spock, I raped you.” The very sound of the words spilling from Jim’s lips betrayed a bewildering preponderance of emotion. “You told me to stop – you begged other people to make me stop, you _fought_ me for as long as you could – ”

 

“I was not rational.”

 

“That’s my point! You didn’t choose this, you didn’t have any say in it – ”

 

“I do not understand why this is an argument in your favor.”

 

Jim flared his nostrils. “I took advantage of the impaired judgment of my _best friend_! That’s not an argument in _my_ favor!”

 

Spock blinked at him in a manner that he knew humans to find condescending, but which he employed as a trigger to a number of ingrained behavioral controls. He needed to order his thoughts before speaking; Jim was not in an especially receptive frame of mind, and he did not wish to be misunderstood.

 

“Don’t Vulcan-roll your eyes at me – I know that look.”

 

In any other situation, Spock might have been tempted to an outright sigh. As it was, he merely stated, “I do not wish to fight with you. I wish to understand why you view your actions as a crime against me.”

 

Jim sucked in a breath and then held it as if doing so could drown the immediate and overly emotional response before it left his mouth. On the tail end of a controlled exhale, he said, “Okay.” He held his hands out in a gesture of capitulation, though something about his posture maintained an idea of confrontation. “Okay,” he repeated. “Just… I’m not having this conversation on the floor, and I’m calling McCoy first to make sure you’re alright.”

 

Something behind the spoken words slithered into the air, and Spock snapped, “I am not the one being stupid.”

 

It took a moment, but Jim did scoff at him eventually. “Just stay there. Idiot.” The way that he said it sounded like an endearment; the mindfeel of the word curled around something cold in Spock and breathed into it like cupped hands in a snowscape.

 

Spock closed his eyes on the sensation and pressed his forehead to the doorjamb, weary and unmoored. He tried to hold onto the knowledge that Jim did not regard him as a mate – that his behavior was only that of the captain to his crew member, that it meant nothing – but contrary things bled into that and obscured it. He needed to meditate badly. He needed to sleep more. He needed to stay away from Jim so that the bond did not strengthen to the point where it could not be broken and Jim would never be free of him. Since Jim did not want him like that. Spock was…so confused by the input he was receiving, his eyes and Jim’s words saying one thing, and Jim’s mind another. He could feel the blood throbbing in his temples and wondered vaguely if he had a headache. That would serve to explain at least some of this.

 

“It’s not that I don’t want you, Spock.”

 

Spock dragged his eyes open and up off of the floor to where Jim crouched out of reach, wrapped up in his sheet to cover the marks that Spock had left on him. He did not recall hearing Jim contact Sickbay, but he must have done so. “Yes it is. You mean to be kind about it, but you do not want me as a mate. I understand why.”

 

Jim pressed his lips together and counted under his breath before he breathed out a large measure of tension that had previously been strung throughout his frame. Then he looked at Spock. “Don’t put words into my mouth, and don’t assume that you know what I’m thinking anymore. I don’t care how far into my head you are; you do _not_ understand.”

 

An argument would have been easy. He could take offense at Jim’s tone, deliberately goad him into saying cruel things – In fact, that was exactly what Jim feared Spock would do. And then they would misunderstand each other entirely again. Jim didn’t want that anymore either – he was tired, and he felt sick, and he just wanted the hurting things and confusion to go away. He wanted to be sure for once, and Spock kept provoking the bad things inside of him – kept drawing out the wolf. Jim’s mind supplied him with an image of two Jims: one of them dying for lack of impetus or passion, and the other controlled by impulse with no conscience, covering the scratches on his face with concealer stolen from someone else’s quarters.

 

Spock wanted to ask about the strange image, but his mind lacked focus enough to engage in a meaningful conversation about anything. He subsided instead and attempted to attain the first level of meditation. Several minutes passed before Spock felt calm enough to engage with Jim again, and he squinted across the floor to where Jim remained crouched, watching him. Spock’s biomonitor bracelet dangled off the end of two of Jim’s fingers – the two that Vulcans used for the _ozh’esta_. Spock blinked at that, and then lifted his eyes to Jim’s.

 

“Better?” Jim asked. “McCoy’s setting a broken leg, so we’re on our own for a bit.” He extended his arm into the space between them and deposited the biomonitor on the floor within Spock’s reach. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be wearing this.”

 

Spock glanced at the monitor, but left it where it was. Jim would have had to climb over him to get into the bathroom and through to Spock’s quarters. How had he managed to do this without disturbing Spock’s meditation? Rather than addressing any of that, Spock told him, “I do not know how to resolve our situation. I do not even know where the source of the problem lies.”

 

Jim shifted on the floor and then pushed himself to his feet, the sheet held tight around his body. “I need clothes for this conversation.”

 

While Jim located suitable attire, Spock levered himself upright and made liberal use of the sturdiness of the bulkheads and countertops while he washed up and used the facilities. The whole scene smacked of domesticity, and Spock peered at himself in the mirror, trying to imagine that this was not such a fleeting, fragile thing. With Jim puttering about in the next room, making a stir in the back of Spock’s head as he mumbled at his clothing, Spock felt almost…stable. It was only at that moment, experiencing the sensation of it as he stared at his own reflection, that he realized that he had never been so before. He could see the shock of it on his face.

 

“Spock?”

 

He twitched and then stuttered back into motion, completing the washing of his hands before he glanced at the closed bulkhead door separating him from Jim. He could not imagine how he might survive the severing of this bond in the event that Jim requested its dissolution. His mind felt warm the way his torso did when consuming a perfectly hot mug of Vulcan spice tea, heated from the inside as it flowed down through his body. “One moment, Captain.”

 

The slight shuffling on the other side of the bulkhead ceased, and then Jim called, “You want a tea? I’ll get you a tea.” His footfalls sounded in retreat a moment later.

 

Spock frowned at the towel into which his hands were presently folded. As Jim’s words replayed in his mind, he lifted his eyes to meet his own in the mirror. How was it that Jim seemed to be taking this situation so well? He acted almost as if this were a natural state between them. A psi-null human should not be able to face constant telepathic exposure with such equanimity, and Jim certainly should not be able to adjust more rapidly than Spock. Then again, Spock knew very little about humans and their physiological tolerance for the telepathy of others. He didn’t even know how his own mother had coped with it. For all he knew, this was normal for a human. And Jim had, in one form or another, been fielding Spock’s telepathy for months already.

 

His ablutions completed, Spock had no excuse for remaining in the bathroom. He reminded himself that as he did not know what sort of conversation to expect, there was no logic in feeling anxiety over it. Jim had also indicated that Spock’s assumptions about Jim’s opinions on their situation were incorrect – that Spock had “put words into his mouth.” The chance remained, however slim the odds, that Jim would allow him to keep this bond. There was no logic in unfounded hope, and yet he had observed how Jim thrived on exactly that, and prevailed. Spock’s mother would have encouraged hope as well. She always had.

 

Perhaps permitting that human tendency was less a betrayal of his Vulcan side, and more an embracing of whatever part of his mother still resided within him. The idea was anathema to being Vulcan, and yet… Spock could easily recall Sybok’s castigations of their father for claiming to follow the principles of IDIC and yet demanding that his hybrid son reject half of his cultural heritage. More recently, McCoy’s many small rants and comments swam to the forefront of Spock’s mind, stressing over and over again that his human side must be accounted for. McCoy seemed to be of the opinion that all those who had refused to do so in the past had done Spock a disservice – including Spock himself. It had never before occurred to him just how like his father he had become. He wondered if Sarek would be proud of him, to know this.

 

Spock blinked at his reflection and wished that his features were less like Sarek’s. He briefly entertained the irrational desire to be able to look at himself and see Amanda instead, but _kaiidth_ – his face could only ever be his own. His mind, however – that, he could change. And it occurred to him that he must, indeed, change. If nothing else, the past two years had shown him that he could not continue as he had been. He could not sustain that person without doing himself damage. A week ago, he would have assumed his logic faulty on the matter – he would have scrutinized his behavior, his meditation practices, his understanding of Surak, even his mental acuity for flaws or defects. Now?

 

Now he didn’t know for certain either way. It was tempting to fall back on his usual habits – they were comfortable like well-worn desert robes – but they had not helped him thus far. The human scientist Einstein once said that attempting the same thing over and over while expecting different results was a form of insanity. A Vulcan would likely dispute the application of that idea here as illogical. To attempt a different path would be to reject the teachings of Surak, to become savage, and no Vulcan had ever come out well in doing that. A human would merely nod because yes, that was indeed insanity, and no progress could be made without rejecting insanity.

 

On the other side of the bulkhead door, Jim’s footsteps sounded in soft thumps about the interior of his cabin, pacing while he waited for Spock, his thoughts sharp, rapid, but unclear like murky fish in dirty water. Jim had hope, though, and Jim often seemed to understand things that Spock did not.

 

Spock folded his hand towel and hung it neatly over the rack installed on the wall for that purpose. He neatened his bangs, adjusted his sleeping robe, and then took one last, hard look at his reflection. It was decided. For once, he would seek to make his mother, not his father, proud of him. He would face his bondmate and he would accept whatever terms Jim set for them going forward. But he would have hope while he did that. He would hope, for as long as even the slimmest odds remained, that Jim would decide to keep him.

 

*****

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some allusions to the TOS series and the Original TWoK.


End file.
